


Love Is The Drug

by Justkeeptrekkin



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bisexuality, Coming Out, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cheesy dates, with each other that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justkeeptrekkin/pseuds/Justkeeptrekkin
Summary: “You’re distracting.”“Huh,” Wilson manages. His hands tense on his folded arms. “Is it my dazzling good looks?”“You’re an anomaly,” he replies immediately in a snarl.“I’m- I’m so sorry, I’ll try to avoid 'being an anomaly' next time.”What happens when two best friends love each other to the point of hating each other? They try to date and sulk about it.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 168
Kudos: 511





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, writing House MD fanfiction like it's 2007.
> 
> Named, of course, after the epic song by Roxy Music.

“Patient with psychotic mood-swings and a fever.”

After over a decade of knowing House- and only some of that time being friends with him- Wilson should be used to it by now. House bursting in whilst he’s on clinic duty or having a consultation. And yet, he still somehow finds himself surprised when he has to stop tweezering the Malteser out of a child’s ear to address him.

He keeps his eyes on the fiddly, albeit ridiculous, task before him. The mother tuts, and the child giggles. Wilson supposes it’s ticklish to have a Malteser in your ear. He wouldn’t know. 

“Kinda busy, House,” he calls, narrowing his eyes and holding the child’s head still as she laughs. 

“Come on. It’s a medical emergency.”

“When isn’t it.”

The little girl giggles again. Wilson sighs. 

“Um.” The young woman holds her child a little tighter, looks between Wilson and House. She bears the expression of someone who’s worried she’s interrupting something important, despite having waited in line for this appointment in the clinic, as she was meant to. As if House wasn’t the one to interrupt. “You can go. If it’s important. We can wait here.”

Wilson sighs again. What’s the differential diagnosis for sighing a million times a day? “No. Ignore him. He’s an-” Whoops. Can’t say asshole. “-Idiot.”

He continues to inspect the girl’s ear, bracing her white-blonde head. 

House makes a pained whine from the edge of the room. “Pwease down’t ignowe me.”

“I _will_ sedate you. I run faster than you, I’d catch you eventually.”

“Psychosis and a fever,” House reiterates, just as the mother gasps at Wilson’s highly offensive insult. Which, to be fair, it would have been for someone who was normal, and also not his best friend. “Vomiting and-”  
“If it’s meningitis-”

“Not meningitis.”

Wilson closes his eyes. Opens them again, moves the tweezers the smallest inch. Aha- chocolate located. 

“Not even MenW?”

“Not even.”

“Lots of things can cause psychosis and fever.” Wilson slowly, slowly tries the remove the tweezers. The kid’s wriggling about, which makes it hard. He winces, stares at the ruddy tipped ear of this child who seemed to forget which orifice was her mouth. “Patient’s a drug addict and has a cold.”

House scoffs. “You think if it were that simple I’d take the case? You disrespect me and my ancestors.”

“So they’re not a drug addict-”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Everyone is secretly an addict because everybody lies. I forgot,” Wilson replies drily. Then- “Aha!”

The Malteser is definitely not edible now. Not that this child would probably have many qualms with eating it anyway. She was the one who stuck it in her ear in the first place; genetics didn’t bless her with common sense. 

“Oh my gosh,” the mother exclaims. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe it was something so simple… I thought maybe she was going deaf. And then she said her ear hurt, and I jumped right to worst case scenario…”

“Usually with kids, it’s something simple. They just can’t articulate when something’s wrong, so simple problems can snowball into something painful.”  
The mother smiles, relieved. The child stares in fascination at the doorway- presumably at House. Wilson follows her line of sight- to find Dr House making cross-eyed faces and sticking out his tongue. 

“Anyway,” Wilson says wearily, trying not to smile. “Keep an eye on her, Mrs Dickson, and let me know if Tilly’s ear gets irritable again.”

With that wrapped up, that leaves him with one more child to attend to. House leans in the doorway, tapping his cane impatiently and whistling. Mrs Dickson and offspring hastily grab their things and leave, allowing Wilson to hang his head and sigh. Turn to look at the man he’s been infatuated with for approximately a decade. 

Yes. He fell in love with him way before he realised they were friends.

“Right. So, you’re here to talk a case? Or is it because you left cash at home and you wanted to scrounge off me for a reuben sandwich.”

“Is a friend not allowed to visit another friend for friendly business?”

“So, both, then.”

“Yuhuh.”

“Luckily for you, I was planning on heading down to the cafeteria right about now anyway. So, no need to pick-pocket me whilst I’m fishing out confectionary items out of children’s ears.”

“You’re no fun. I like stealing from you.”

Wilson laughs, heads to the nurse’s station and flicks through some files mindlessly. Just to keep his attention away from House- he doesn’t like giving him the satisfaction. Sometimes, though, he can’t quite help himself. For now at least, he can flick through some files and pretend he’s very important, doing other important things.

“What, you’re insinuating that you harassing me and my clinic patients as I’m trying to treat them isn’t fun?” he poses, sarcasm stronger than a double whisky. “You hurt my feelings.”

“Oh, no way. The free reuben is good, but the foreplay before you buy it for me?” House makes a chef’s kiss. 

Wilson pretends to ignore that. “Fever and mood swings could be anything from flu to lime disease, to-”

“No rash.”

“You’re not getting to the juicy part. There’s some big thing here that made you take the case and you’re not telling me.”

“OK, OK- guess who it is. Guess.”

“What makes you think I care enough to guess?”

And it goes like this: the banter that toes the line between friends and flirting. Wilson knows that House is probably totally unaware that that’s what’s happening. He indulges in it anyway. There is a part of him that reckons House knows _exactly_ what he’s doing and continues anyway, just to be vindictive. That would be on brand. 

“Twenty questions- go.”

Wilson grabs a file from the stack- one of his patients- and ambles slowly towards the lift at House-pace. “OK, wait, let me put down my hair straighteners and Mizz Magazine first.”

“I’ll give you a clue: you will literally never guess.”

House is in a chipper mood today. That puts him a bit on edge. That usually only means one thing; he should check how many prescription sheets are missing from his book. “OK. Are they cute?”

“Yes. Duh. Next.”

“OK, is she an actress?”

“What makes you think they’re a she?”

The lift door opens. It’s empty, and for a second Wilson stares at it, recalibrating mentally. 

That’s… a piece of information that he needs a second to work through. 

He steps in. House follows, and the doors close. 

“So. _He’s_ cute?”

“Yep. Oh, gosh, you’ll never guess, I’m just- I’m gonna give you a spoiler, I can’t cope with the tension.”

House digs out his phone, flips it open- it’s a photo of House. With Aaron Jackson, an actor from one of the many shitty medical dramas he’s obsessed with. House is grinning maniacally, whilst Jackson is lying in a bed, yellow with jaundice and sweating bullets. One of the nurse’s must have taken it for him. Maybe even Chase, Cameron, or Foreman. They would have just loved that. 

“Charming,” Wilson says. 

“Isn’t he dreamy?”

“Jaundiced? Yeah, he’s just what every little girl dreams of.” 

The lift pings. House looks at Wilson and raises his eyebrows. 

“Or little boy, apparently,” he adds. House looks satisfied with Wilson’s surprise. “When were you gonna tell me that tiny, minute, irrelevant detail by the way?”

“What? That I objectively think a male human is attractive?”

House makes that smug, pursed-lipped smile and steps out of the lift into the corridor. Wilson sighs and catches up, finding himself lagging. He was meant to be faster than House. 

“Yeah, sure. You just… wanted to casually insinuate that you find a guy aesthetically pleasing by making me play 20 questions, for no reason. You never do anything without reason.”

“True. OK, would you believe me if I told you that I wanted to test your attitudes towards LGBT+ issues as a practice for Diversity and Sensitivity Training?” 

“Oh, yes, that sounds… just like you. Looking out for the underdog.”

“So. Which letter are you?”

They’ve just stepped inside the cafeteria, and the noise is overwhelming. It isn’t usually- it’s just an ordinary cafeteria. But right now, having all these people around him is making him hyper aware of their conversation topic. Which is making his neck hot and his mouth dry, and House is just- walking away to join the lunch queue. That is, until he realises that Wilson’s stopped; he makes a slow turn around, sighing theatrically and leaning on his cane. 

“What, suddenly self-conscious? We’ve discussed worse in public.”

“No, it’s just… a surprising question. I am- _allowed_ to be taken aback by this, you know. Normal conversations don’t go like this.”

House frowns. “None of our conversations are normal.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Wilson manages, before joining House’s side. “Do you want me to honestly answer? Which letter am I? Assuming you mean within the acronym of LGBT+?”

“No, which letter in the alphabet are you? I took an online quiz the other day that told me I’m W- because I’m _cool, pragmatic, and a good listener_ ,” he taunts. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not answering you if you’re gonna be an asshole about it.”

Somehow, that gets House to back off. Maybe he hadn’t expected Wilson to take it this personally- he doesn’t usually take his assholery personally. Maybe he was joking about this whole thing, only to find Wilson shutting down on him. Either way, he’s lingering thoughtfully behind him in the queue as they line up for sandwiches. Wilson grabs one for them each, pays, leaves the tray for House to carry with one hand. Saunters off to find a free table, feeling suddenly like he’s in high school. Like the next table he walks past is going to start snickering and throwing bread rolls at him. 

Wilson finds a table. House is close behind, and before he even gets to sit down-

“I was just thinking-”

He sighs. “I thought the uncharacteristic silence meant that you’d suddenly had an epiphany. Figured out when to drop a topic. Go ahead, prove me wrong.”

“There’s got to be someone you like. You only get this cagey when you like someone. Wilson and someone, sitting in a tree.”

Too close for comfort. Wilson grinds his teeth. House has a floppy fry between his fingers, blue eyes fixed on him. There’s humour in that expression, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that there’s also calculation in there, too. 

“What is this, high-school?” Wilson says, attacking his salad. 

House pauses. Again, an uncharacteristic quiet. When House is quiet, that means he’s measuring a situation. Wilson can practically see the numbers flying around him, like birds around a cartoon character’s head. It’s safer to return his attention to his salad- which has suffered several stabbings from his fork and is looking a little worse for wear, tomato juice everywhere. He sighs, picking up the reuben. 

“Alright,” House says, looking serious suddenly. “Fine. You can relax. I’ll stop _accusing you_ of being gay. Obviously, that’s the worst possible thing a human can be, am I right?”

Ah. And this sandwich had looked so enticing. He really wants to eat. But with something like _that_ hanging in the air. Wilson sighs, puts down the sandwich. Stares at House, who’s jabbing his ketchup with a fry sulkily. 

“This is obviously important to you.”

“Don’t do that,” House snarls, leaning back in the booth they’re occupying. “Don’t try and pick up the conversation again because you’re pathologically incapable of making another person feel bad. That’s why you’re obsessed with crying over the terminally ill cancer kids.”

“Yes, this is… totally comparable.”

“You’re pitying me,” House says. “So let’s talk about something else. Hey, see that absurdly low-cut top Cuddy’s wearing today? I think she’s-”

“Ah- the ‘don’t pity me’ spiel, I see. Yes, historically, that’s worked very well between you and I. See, I do this thing called caring about you, and _you_ do this thing called ‘I’m scared of telling my best friend this thing, so I’ll turn it into a guilt tripping mind-game instead’.”

“It doesn’t matter,” House says quietly. “And it’s not important.”

“Right.” Wilson picks up his sandwich again. The salad has made the bread soggy. “See, if you’d tried to talk to me about this like a normal human being, we wouldn’t be here. And you wouldn’t have saturated that poor French fry with ketchup.”

The world goes on around them, of course. But, amongst all the weird conversations he’s had with House, this is up there. Casually talking about sexual orientation is one thing- casually coming out in the middle of the cafeteria, when Wilson had had absolutely no clue he could be anything other than straight as a board? For some reason, this moment feels more important than most. More than some of the chats they’ve had about addiction, depression, PTSD, all of that. It’s like an out-of-body experience. Perhaps, because Wilson is a selfish bastard and can’t stop thinking about the possibility that House might like him.

 _House might like him._ Ha! Even thinking about it seems miserably, hilariously impossible. When did he start regressing into young adulthood?

House finally starts eating and stops sulking. Wilson, predictably, feels bad. Talking about feelings was never House’s strength, and he’d known from the start that this was his way of doing that. Then again, pointing out that he’s doing so in a shitty way shouldn’t be something to feel guilty about. Then again- House has never does anything in a way that sin’t shitty, even when he’s being nice, so there’s no reason why Wilson should be smacking him on the nose with a newspaper about it now. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks. _Then again_ , he thinks they both sort of like this thing that they do. Wilson does, because he’s masochistic. House probably has his own reasons, aside from masochism. 

The reuben is good. The silence isn’t. Wilson nudges his foot against House’s to grab his attention. 

“So,” Wilson says, putting down the sandwich. “You wanna know?”

House sighs, rolls his eyes a little- pulls the crusts off his bread. “You don’t have to-”

“Bi.” Huh. He’s never even thought about the word, let alone said it out loud. He’s had more important things to do than worry about his sexual orientation, and yet here he is, 100% certain that he’s bisexual. It’s obvious. Now, he’s saying it as the realisation comes to him. “Unless the ‘B’ in LGBT+ stands for ‘bacon’. In which case, that would kinda conflict with the whole Jewish thing.”

House stares at him, mouth open and startlingly blue eyes wide. “ _Interesting,_ ” he says with a growing smile.

Wilson licks mustard from his thumb. Affects his best attempt at nonchalance. “Is it?”

House tilts his head, pouts his bottom lip. “Three failed marriages. Figured that spelled ‘GAY’ in big, capital letters. In neon. Flashing.”

Wilson laughs. “Nope, that’s just because I’m incapable of holding a stable relationship.”

Then House smiles. Takes a ginormous bite of his reuben. Hums cheerily to himself and peers around the cafeteria. 

“So- fever, psychosis, no rash. Vomiting-”

“Woah, woah, _woah_.” Wilson puts down his sandwich decisively. “That was my attempt at opening up so you’d open up. Rebuild the trust, or whatever.”

House shrugs. He replies matter of factly, “You attempted poorly.”

“Fucking…” Wilson curses under his breath.

“I’m not gonna discuss my sexual orientation in the middle of the hospital cafeteria- what, are you crazy?”

“For the record-” his heart-rate is through the roof right now. Christ. “-forcing someone to come out over a reuben isn’t really the done thing.”

“ _For the record,_ ” House pops a fry in his mouth, “I didn’t force you to do shit.”

“No, you just emotionally manipulated me. Which is totally fine.”

“Wrong again. You’re just pathetic. Because, like I said: pathologically incapable of making someone feel bad. And you overshare because you’re seeking validation- trying to get those nasty voices in your head to shut up and stop saying mean things about you.”

“Uhuh.” He leans back in his seat, reuben forgotten. He folds his arms across his chest. “Since when did you become a shrink?”

“Please, I could out-shrink all the shrinks. I’m smarter than they are. I can perform surgery, they can’t.”

“So… you’re saying that you’re better than everyone else. And also that I’m a sad, pathetic little gay man. Great. I’m glad we had this talk.”

“I’m saying that there are reasons you share everything with me and I share nothing with you. And none of that is either of our fault.”

That- that surprises him. “I thought everything was everyone’s fault.”

“Not this time,” House mutters, taking a tomato from Wilson’s plate. “Can’t help who you are.”

“Hmm,” Wilson says. This _doesn’t_ surprise him. “You would say that. The man who takes almost no responsibility for anything he does.”

“Mhm,” is all he gets as a response.

They continue to eat. Wilson spots Cameron, Foreman and Chase eating together. They’re laughing. Whenever Wilson sees them together, it creeps him out. It’s like watching ‘Mean Girls’. All two-faced jokes and subtle ways of trying to survive each other’s jabs without crying. Pretending to be friends.

He returns his attention to House, who’s finally removed all the crusts, deposited them on a separate plate (Wilson’s), and made the whole plate symmetrical. He doesn’t always do this. Only when he’s stressed. 

“You have OCD,” Wilson half-jokes.

House gives him a _are you a fucking moron?_ expression. “Yuh think?”

“So that’s it, then?” He’s given up on his lunch. “I’m bi, and you’re done with this conversation?”

“Yep,” he replies with a plosive ‘p’. 

He gives him a few more seconds to change his mind. He doesn’t- he’s eating again, now, no longer obsessing with the presentation of his lunch. Wilson sighs. Continues people watching. 

“Plus, I’m bi, too.”

House quirks his eyebrows, takes one last bite of his sandwich and grabs his tray. Before Wilson can think of a response, House is walking away, cane tucked under his arm. As ever, House is always the one to have the last word. Always the one in control. Except, this time, it’s more complicated. He’s made himself vulnerable. Rolled onto his back and showed Wilson his belly, to go with another dog metaphor. 

Wilson watches House go, stares after him. His chest feels fuzzy.

“Huh,” he says, a little airily. “Interesting.”

000000

The hospital has felt more like home to Wilson than any of his actual homes. He’s always figured it’s because he’s dedicated to his job. Which, he is, in a perverse sort of way. Self-flagellation through trying to cure incurable cancer kids- something House apparently likes to remind him of. But lately, he’s figured it’s something else, too.

People say that when you love someone, you can be anywhere with them and be happy. You can live in a bedsit with no furniture with the person you love and make it work, because you love each other. It’s idealistic, naïve- and any opportunity to not live in an empty bedsit would be better. So, Wilson has always dismissed that sort of thing as unrealistic, altruistic bullshit. He still does. 

But then, he is altruistic. It’s what draws him towards shitty, broken people- what’s made him try to make a marriage work even when he’s realised he doesn’t love them and they don’t love him back. It’s what makes him a great doctor, and he has a feeling it’s what keeps him at Princeton Plainsboro.

House… isn’t good for him. He draws Wilson in like a moth, burns him. Then pumps him full of oxytocin and sends him on his way- to the point that he forgets just how much it hurts. The problem is, he also knows that it’s not so simple as that. It isn’t just House who’s an asshole: he’s an asshole right back at him. And it doesn’t even stop there. They also save each other’s lives on daily fucking basis. They care about each other, and they show it. Even if they hurt each other, too.

He works here because it feels like home. House is a part of that. Maybe he’s called House because he makes Wilson feel at home. Aha. 

Wilson is on the way to House’s office right now- to deliver some news on his not-lime disease patient. Because he’s his colleague. Because he’s his best friend. 

Because he loves him. Because he’s addicted to him. All of the above. 

He knocks, enters whilst Chase is mid-sentence.

“… yesterday, he tests positive Aids. Now the results have come back negative?”

“Yeah. Maybe he just wished really hard,” House says, hanging his cane up on the whiteboard. He pops the pen. “What could present as Aids in a test?” 

“… Hep, maybe?” Cameron hesitates. 

Foreman winces. “It’s so unlikely-” 

“But still possible,” Cameron interrupts.

Foreman stares at her. She ignores it. Wilson hovers in the middle of the room, picking up the strong scent of Foreman’s dislike. House writes ‘Hepatitis’ on the board. 

_Kiss-ass,_ Foreman’s glare says. 

Wilson clears his throat. Nobody turns to look. “It’s not paraneoplastic,” he says, waving the results in his hand. 

“You’re a half-hour too late,” House says. He taps the board with the pen. “Could be Hep. What else?”

Wilson sits down. Offers his ideas, finds them being accepted as interesting. Which is interesting in of itself. The few times Wilson has come in to consult, he’s discovered that House ignores what almost everyone is saying- everyone except for him. Obviously, sometimes he says something that House deems moronic, with his big, better-than-you brain. But by the end of the conversation, his theory is written on the board, and he’s being death stared by the Mean Girls. 

“I don’t understand, it’s clearly a rare strain of meningitis- it isn’t impossible, and it’s far more likely than everything else we’ve batted around today,” Foreman says evenly. He looks at the back of House’s head, who’s moving into his personal office next door. “Why are you making us jump through all these hoops?”

“Because, we are dealing with a human being.”

Everyone stares. Wilson leans back in his chair and watches the show.

“Right,” Chase smirks. “Like you give a shit.”

“I don’t,” House says. “I’m just wondering why you guys don’t.”

House raises his brows at the room, waits. They shift uncomfortably. 

“We don’t watch the same soap operas as you,” Chase says. “I don’t care that he’s an actor.”

“True. But usually you’re the ones giving me shit for not giving a shit. So why don’t you all care more?”

Chase stares at his hands. Foreman rolls his eyes and Cameron looks like she’s about to cry. 

Foreman takes a breath. “Because you’re imagining that there’s something wrong here when there isn’t. It’s hard to care when it’s a simple diagnosis with a simple cure. The patient will be fine. _You_ are deluded. _You_ are trying to find a puzzle where there isn’t one.”

“Ok, so, all the times I’ve been right in the past have meant nothing to you? Did your med-school teach you that success rates meant something was unsuccessful, or do I need to send you to psych?”

“Ooh. Burn,” Foreman retorts. “You’re slipping.”

And… this show has stopped being fun. Wilson stares. House is off. The whole ‘I don’t care’ conversation happens a lot, and it usually reveals that House actually _does_ care, even if he doesn’t realise. This time, though, it’s taking a weird turn. He looks shocked. Shocked at being owned by Foreman. Shocked at his floundering. 

“ _He’s sick,_ ” House says slowly, loudly.

“ _You’re slipping_ ,” Foreman repeats. 

House’s eyes widen in fury. He does _not_ deal well with condescension being thrown back at him. And what’s worse, Foreman is sort of right. Shit’s about to hit the fan, big time. 

It makes Wilson duck and cover his head. 

Chase snorts. “You should probably get out of here, Wilson, before the explosion.”

“Agreed.” House sighs. “Get out.”

Wilson sits up, tilts his head and sighs. “House.”

“Get out.”

House is staring at the floor. His hand is gripping his cane, and his breathing is slow. House means it, Wilson realises. He’s kicking him out, for no reason. Everyone else is staring between them, heads moving like they’re watching a tennis match. And Wilson feels his stomach plummet and burn like he’s being hung, drawn and quartered. It’s not as if House hasn’t said or done worse, but holy shit. 

“OK,” Wilson agrees wearily. He stands up, suddenly feeling old and achy. “I’ll… take my diagnosis elsewhere.”

“That would be great. Bye. Don’t leave the door open, I don’t like a draft.”

All he can do is stare. This must be because of the Vicodin. He’s taking too much, obviously. He always is- which is also why it can’t be because of the Vicodin. Wilson scoffs. 

“Ouch. You’ve hurt my feelings so much.”

He has, but it’s whatever. It’s them. He pushes the glass door open and takes satisfaction in the way his coat swoops. 

Right. So, he’s been kicked out of House’s office because he’s pissed off at Foreman. Illogical, weird, but no biggie; nothing to take personally, he tells himself. What was he doing before House started being his usual, jerky self? 

He looks at his watch. He has clinic duty again in fifteen minutes. Wouldn’t hurt to head down early. Although, on second thoughts, he also needs to restock his office with some basic supplies. Even during a consultation with a desk between him and his patient, sometimes he has to snap on the gloves and patch someone up. So, he heads towards the supply cupboard. He switches on the light, turns towards the shelves with the gauze-wrap and medical tape. He starts filling up, stuffing things in the crook of his elbow and in his coat pockets. 

The thing about him and House, he thinks, is that it feels like they belong together, even if they’re awful to each other. He’s never felt like that with any of his exes. 

Sometimes- like right now- he thinks back on them. The small things, which shouldn’t stick with him so thoroughly. Those small moments, like getting Chinese food at Christmas. Small things like the insane, jealous pang he had when that hot masseuse came and left House totally blissed out. Moments like when House noticed he was wearing a tie that made his eye pop, and when Wilson pointed out that he looked ‘unusually nice’ in a turtleneck. Things like Foreman pointing out that the only reason he picked a case was because Wilson found it interesting- no other motivation. Those things wouldn’t sear into his brain unless he were totally, disgustingly in love with House. It’s more disgusting than some of the medical conditions he has to treat on a daily basis. Love is the yuckiest thing out there. Especially when it involves someone as yucky as House. 

He’s letting out a long, put-upon sigh, when the door swings open. It takes Wilson by surprise, and he drops half of his supplies.

It’s almost as if he was caught daydreaming about his crush in a cupboard.

Of course, it’s House, ambling towards the shelf he’s perusing. He leans in close- leans across him to fetch a box of tissues. 

“For the whiteboard,” he says, face inches away. His brow creased as he scans Wilson’s face in interest. Blue eyes, right there. Lips, right there, too. “You’re red.”

“ _You’re_ red,” he retorts. Good Lord. 

House blinks. He doesn’t move, damn him. Their noses are practically touching. “You feeling OK?”

Wilson steps backwards, glowers. Stoops to pick up his supplies. “Yeah. Totally fine. I just have a few questions.”

House sighs irritably, snatches the box of tissues and storms out of the cupboard. Wilson stops the door with his foot, follows in hot pursuit.

“What was all that about?”

House waved the box of tissues. “Whiteboard.”

“No, you sending me out like I’m a defiant student.”

“I didn’t need you there.”

It doesn’t sting like it should. “So- either you’re ignoring me because I’m bi, you’re ignoring me because _you’re_ bi, or you’re ignoring me because you’re high.”

“Hey, that rhymes! You should sell those lyrics. Trademark Jimmy Wilson. Maybe change your name to something cooler, though.”

“This happens when you open up about something,” he says, catching up to House’s pace. Enough to speak in a more hushed tone. “You turn into a bitch and kick me away. Slam doors in my face and then wallow.”

“Perceptive,” he says drily.

“Care to _stop_ being a bitch?”

Wilson thinks he’s left it on a good last-word, there. Heading towards his office, though, he feels House’s presence- hears his uneven gait.

“Why are you following me?” Wilson calls.

“Why are _you_ jumping up my ass?”

Wilson hangs his head back and sighs. He turns around. 

“Because.”

House blinks rapidly at him, shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “ _Because?_ ”

“Yeah, because. Just ‘cause. ‘Cause I don’t like your face and you’re annoying me.”

See, he’s always resorted to being childish when he’s around House. Turns out, that’s enough to baffle House into not following. Thank God for that.

He opens his office door, leans against it. Exhales. 

He deposits his supplies, hangs up his coat, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Sits at his desk, and he opens the file that’s been left there by his assistant. X-rays, of one of his more hopeful patients. He holds them up to the light and winces; compares this recent image with the one two months ago. There’s good progress. That’s something, at least. 

If he lets himself feel whatever it is he’s feeling about House right now, he’ll explode. So he doesn’t. 

The minutes go by. He gets a phone call from the clinic, reminding him that he was meant to be down there ten minutes ago. He goes. He has a boring two hours treating runny noses and coughs. He returns to his desk and forces himself to focus on his computer, his new set of lab results, his x-rays. Anything. 

The unmistakable rap of House’s cane against the balcony window. 

“No,” he shouts without looking up from his paperwork.

House just continues to knock. It’s a slow, rhythmic knock- threatening, like a zombie trying to break in. After a minute, he starts howling- _howling_ , like an abandoned dog. Wilson looks up, pretends to search the room for the route of the noise and scratches his head for show. He ends up turning on his music speakers, and The Rolling Stones covers the sound of his complaints. The image of House’s stooping image is there in his periphery, still. For a minute or so, at least. Then, he gives up. And Wilson gets to keep on working. 

Half an hour later, there’s a knock at the door. Wilson hangs his head. Turns off the music. And then he lets him in.  
House doesn’t say anything- he sits down at Wilson’s desk, rubs his leg. Eyes darting about the room.

“May I… _help_ you?” Wilson starts wearily. He’s had enough of this today. 

That’s a total lie, of course, but still.

“I came- to apologise.”

Wilson stares. House’s baby-blue eyes avoiding his as much as possible. His baby-sulking impression worthy of an award. It makes Wilson lean back in his seat and smirk. “Bullshit.”

That pisses him off, reasonably. “Hey! I’m trying to be _nice_. You know, that think you’re constantly telling me to be? Like a good little bitch-boy?”

“I- I can’t believe this, I gotta write this down.”

“I’m going.”

House moves to stand up. Stops, and stares as Wilson starts pinching himself. 

“This can’t be real,” Wilson says in awe, pinching along his arm in mock-panic. “Oh, God, I’m _trapped in a dream_!.”

“Do any of the women you’ve screwed think you’re hilarious? Do any of the guys for that matter?”

That makes him laugh, to be fair. The thing is, Wilson is sort of being serious. House has said and done things that have hurt more. It’s confusing that he should choose to apologise now. “Why?”

House collapses back into his seat. Lets his cane fall against the desk loudly. “Why? You’re asking why I’m being nice?”

“Yes, why the sudden personality change?”

“Because… it got personal. Because I’m a meanie. Because my mom made me. It doesn’t matter- do apologies usually go like this? Do people have to know why they’re apologising?”

“Kinda makes the apology moot if they don’t.”

House points at him in fake-acknowledgement. Scoffs. “Right, right, gotcha.”

“So. You’re being cute, all of a sudden-”

“My face is annoying to you,” House corrects. “If I recall.”

“-that doesn’t explain why you threw me out of your room. I was helping. In fact,” Wilson presses, House tensing- face setting. His eyes do this thing when he’s being interrogated, when he feels threatened; they turn even keener. Which shouldn’t be physically possible, and yet- “I think I was the one who came up with the diagnosis you liked the most. Got a gold star on Dr House’s clever-kids board. I felt so proud. And then you snatched my dreams right out of my grasp.” 

House is staring at him, now. No avoiding eye-contact anymore- just straight up staring. Skipping from social no-no to another. Wilson finds himself feeling fairly safe behind his desk, leaning in his nice, orthopaedic seat. Fairly. 

“Well?” he asks.

House blink and stares like a cat. He’ll either dart out of the room and hiss, or he’ll curl up and start purring. Or he’ll keep on holding his grudge. 

“You’re distracting.”

That- that’s-

“Huh,” Wilson manages. His hands tense on his folded arms. “Is it my dazzling good looks?”

“You’re an anomaly,” he replies immediately in a snarl. 

“I’m- I’m so sorry, I’ll try to avoid 'being an anomaly' next time.”

“Anomalies are distracting. You’re not usually in the room, thereby you are an anomaly. Your medical expertise is appreciated, everything else is not,” House clarifies coldly. “If you could just come with a set of curtain rails, that’d be great. I’ll just cover you up.”

“That…” 

OK, he has to admit, he’s struggling with this. Wilson had thought maybe he was feeling vulnerable after their conversation in the cafeteria and was lashing out, but this feels like something else. And the whole ‘I don’t want to see your distracting personage’ thing is baffling. Of course, when he told House that his face annoyed him, he meant it. It does annoy him, because he loves it. 

In this case, though-

“Be offended if you like, I don’t give a shit, just phone call me next time.” House turns his head away. “That’s all I’m saying on the matter.”

Wilson is stumped. He probably looks it, too, staring as House moves to stand up. 

He hisses through his teeth, sits down again. Rubs his leg, head hanging. 

Everything is forgotten. Wilson leans forward across the desk. “It’s worse than usual?”

House doesn’t reply immediately. “No, everything is delightful.”

“Evidently.”

There’s an awkward silence for a moment. House is taking slow, measured breathes. His eyes are fixed on his jeans, hands massaging his leg. Wilson watches him; the way he doesn’t even try to hide his pain. For years, Wilson has seen him pretend that he’s feeling OK around others. Around Wilson, though, he doesn’t even bother. There’s the sheen of sweat that he can’t hide, the bags under his eyes- but then there’s the shaking breaths. The pinch in his brows. The things he doesn’t usually show people. 

Steeling himself, Wilson stands. He goes to his friend and rolls up his already rolled-up sleeves. For comfort, assurance, something. Then he kneels, and does a thing that he’s never let himself consider before, let alone asked if House would let him. 

He extends a careful hand above House’s thigh. He looks up, raises his brow. Pretending to be nonchalant again, as if he’s ever been good at that. 

House stares at him. “What’s wrong,” he demands, rather than asks. 

“I’m,” Wilson scoffs. “It’s a massage. You’ve had one of those before.”

“Yeah, from hot chicks, not you.”

Ouch. “Ouch,” he says. 

“I mean it,” House says. My God, he actually sounds concerned. “You would never ordinarily offer to do this.”

“You’re right, I haven’t before. But I am now.”

“So, you’re just being nice.”

Wilson stares. House stares. Sometimes it’s like they’re speaking two different languages. Remarkable, considering how horribly forthright House is. How on earth can they miscommunicate so easily?

“I _am_ being nice. I’m the one who’s nice, remember? You’re the one who isn’t, which is why I have to pinch myself when you are. Now grow a pair and let me massage your leg.”

He’s staring. House will not stop staring, and it’s making his resolve fizzle out. 

House leans down a little bit. That proximity isn’t helping. “Why,” he says slowly, deliberately.

“Because you’re in pain, and because, psychologically speaking… giving yourself a massage isn’t nearly as effective.”

He has no clue if that’s scientifically true, just something he’s found personally. Whatever, if pulling that sort of shit out nowhere is what works, then, fine. Although- House does have a point. Why has he decided to do this now? All these years, and he could have easily put himself in this humiliating position before. 

No time to wonder about that. House gives a jerky nod. It’s a relief. Wilson gets to work. 

He remembers where the wound is, remembers which muscle was removed. He remembers too well; he hadn’t been the one to treat him, but he knows the ins and outs well enough. He massages up from the knee. It won’t be as effective through the material of the jeans, but it’s something. House’s hands tense on the arms of the chair; he makes that pained, hissing sound again; then he relaxes a little. Breathing shuddering. 

_Yup- fuck, this was not a good idea,_ Wilson thinks, a little desperately.

And yet, here he is, continuing. He’s happy House hasn’t asked where he learned massage skills from, or why. It had been after that masseuse came in and took House’s hand and made him make that noise. He’d looked up some techniques, deluding himself that it was for medical reasons rather than ‘ways to your friend’s Scrooge-heart’.

Wilson can’t believe himself. His face is right underneath the Merriam-Webster definition of ‘pathetic’. 

House releases a slow breath. The sound of someone getting into bed after a long day of being on their feet. And then Wilson looks up to see that he’s covering his face with his hand. He’s wincing. 

“Any better?” he somehow manages. 

“Stop,” House replies. 

Wilson’s hands stop, his heart does, too. “What’s-?”

There’s a short knock at the door, and no pause. House’s head snaps up, eyes wide like he’s been caught in the act. Wilson just closes his eyes and winces.

“I’m _assuming_ that’s Dr Cuddy,” he says with a surprising amount of good humour.

“I can come back later,” Cuddy says. With an irritating amount of humour.

“How rude, can’t you see we’re having sex, here?” House jokes. It’s painful, how obvious it is that he’s deflecting. 

Wilson opens his eyes. Realises he’s still holding House’s thigh- removes his hands like they’ve been pressed against the stove. Of course it would be the Chief of Medicine who would walk in to find him doing this. Knelt on one knee, as if he’s proposing. Or doing something else entirely. Or doing exactly what he’s doing, which is massage House’s thigh. Which is actually bad enough. 

He turns to look, at last. Cuddy merely stands there, throws her hands in the air. 

“Hey, I- don’t need to know the details. I just wanted to ask you both about how your patient’s doing.”

“Great,” Wilson says.

“Swell,” House says in unison. 

She smiles, quirks her eyebrows, and marches out of the room with her usual business-like urgency. 

Nothing is said for a very long second. Then, Wilson stands up again and says:

“So, let’s never do that again, shall we?”

“Yep. Agreed.”

Retrieving his cane, House stands with less difficulty. Neither one of them make a comment on it. Wilson takes a stand behind his desk, places his hands on his hips. He watches House amble towards the door, radiating a painful amount of discomfort. And not because of his leg. 

“Knew this was a fluke,” House mutters.

“Huh?”

House sighs theatrically. “This wasn’t just you being nice. There’s something with you at the moment, and I’m gonna figure out what.”

“Funny, I’d say the same of you. There’s only one reason you’d let me give you a massage like that, and that’s because there’s something going on with _you_.”

They both look at each other. And the thought that goes through Wilson’s head makes him dizzy with irritation and frustration. 

_No. No way,_ he thinks. _House would drop dead before developing feelings for me. Far more likely that he’s sick than he likes me._

It begins to rain outside. Wilson turns, out of instinct, to the sound of it beginning to patter against the glass. House takes the opportunity to leave, without any last word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I forgot to mention, I'm setting this as a post-season 2 canon divergent. So, he was shot, but he didn't wake up with his leg working again.

The rain is being very insistent. It’s that strange kind of sound that, despite being like a crappy percussion band drumming against his office window, is oddly calming. And not at all distracting. House wishes it was distracting, because he’d do anything to not think about Wilson right now. 

Obsessional. That may as well be his middle name (not even Wilson knows his real one, much to his chagrin- _oh, look_ , he’s thinking about Wilson again. When will this nightmare end?). Contrary to popular belief, having a brain that goes over and over and over and over and over a thought repeatedly can be very helpful. In terms of diagnostics, it’s a superpower. The mental equivalent of polishing a coin until you can see your reflection. Or slowly raking through a Japanese rock-garden until it looks just right, until you can step back and go- ‘there, that’s it, that’s perfect’. It’s also the equivalent of washing your hands tred with boiling-hot water till you’re certain they’re clean. For House, figuring out a diagnostic puzzle is looking at it from every single angle possible- polish, polish- rake, rake- clean, clean- until he gets that _just right_ feeling. Then some other idea will come flying in and hit him in the head, and he’ll obsess over that till it’s either proven or disproven. It’s agonising, and he can’t imagine living any other way. He isn’t him without it. 

So, it makes total sense that he should be agonising over Wilson. 

He’s taking a comb and going through all his memories with him. Were there ever any moments when he acted like he loved Wilson? Yes, there have been plenty, unfortunately. How many of those moments did he do those things intentionally? Not many. In retrospect, though, it’s obvious that he was subconsciously peacocking. Even the first time they met each other: bailing a cute guy out of jail after knowing him for one day, just because he was ‘bored’ and the guy ‘interested’ him. That’s pretty fuckin’ gay, he must admit to himself. 

House rests his forehead against the handle of his cane and breathes out through his nose. The rain continues to bullet against his window. 

What else? Well, there’s all the other times he’s made a fool out of himself. Made jokes about them being a couple. House winces on one side of his face, like someone’s jabbed a needle in his shoulder. The amount of denial that all those jokes involved- 

_”What are you hiding?” Stacy accuses._

_“I'm gay!... Oh, that's not what you meant. It would explain a lot, though: no girlfriend, always with Wilson…_ ”

-is both staggering and mortifying. So far no one has challenged him on them, having probably seen them all as examples of his simply stellar humour. But naturally, over the past couple of weeks, he’s beginning to see that there’s some horrific Freudian reason for these jokes. That reason being that he is in love with Wilson. A fact so uncomfortable and irritating that he’s done his classic thing of layering it in piles of shit and Vicodin so he didn’t even realise. He’s having trouble realising it now. His mind is trying to fight the feeling, like shaking off some mangy ally-cat that’s clinging onto his leg. 

House groans to himself and slowly knocks his head against his cane. 

OK. What to do about it? Well, if he’s sensible, he’ll do what he did with Stacy and save himself a world of pain. Cut himself off entirely. But the shitty thing about that is that he truly, honestly would not know what to do without Wilson- not that he’d ever tell him that, of course. He is quite literally the only person who possibly, just possibly _likes_ him- is not just morbidly fascinated by him. He’s known him way too long for the novelty of House’s personality not to have worn off. So, where does that leave him? Lose his best friend, or risk making a move and then lose him anyway? 

_Or_ \- now here’s the rub- he could just carry on and not say anything. Pine like a puppy and avoid any awkward conversations or heartbreak. He doesn’t think he’ll survive heartbreak again. Yes, the pining option seems ideal, except for the soul-crushing misery that comes with unrequited feelings. He’s too selfish for that. He’s in enough pain as it is, he’s not going to put himself through the torture of trailing after Wilson. Seeing Wilson when House arrives (late) through the entrance of the hospital, wearing one of his stupid ties and frowning as he reads through patient files. Seeing Wilson being friendly and annoyingly affable with everyone he meets, dying children hugging him. Songbirds and sparkles in the air, his white coat flowing as he walks in slow motion to go save some lives. 

There is absolutely no way he’s subjecting himself to something so personally insulting as _pining_. He’s hates himself, yes, but he has a horrible feeling he loves Wilson more. 

OK, so that leaves him with one other option. Tell Wilson. _Don’t_ lose him. Woo him and fight for him. 

Well, he has always liked a challenge. 

House goes over images of Wilson lying on the sofa in his living room, countless nights watching movies and talking about stupid crap. Moments from his past that House wishes he could remember better, but instead he remembers all the bad stuff. He doesn’t remmeber all the good things he’s done with Wilson, even if they’ve been small and relatively meaningless. He wishes he could recall the dumb jokes they’ve laughed at and then forgotten, because now they seem to mean a whole lot more. He picks and picks and picks at his memories with the urge to remember something, until all of them bleed together.

The door opens without a knock. He doesn’t look up, merely leaves his forehead resting against his cane. 

“Who goes there,” he demands in a low voice, already knowing it’s Cameron.

“Tox-screen came back negative. It’s not drugs or alcohol-”

“Of course it isn’t.”

He hears Cameron suppress a sigh. “Then why did you make us-”

“To stop that annoying, whining noise that won’t go away when I ignore Chase.”

“Your conscience?” she says with a wry smile. 

At that, House looks up at her with an expression that says: _really?_ “No. I’m comparing him to a mosquito. Because he’s _annoying_ and a _whiny bitch_. Was that not obvious?”

“Foreman did say you’re slipping.”

She blinks, schooling her expression as if she’s trying to figure out whether she regretted saying that or not. House stares at her. A long, hard, cold stare. Cameron stares back, albeit a look more terrified than his. 

House turns his thoughts back to his patient. They’re usually the one who occupy his waking thoughts. Not-

“Sarcoidosis,” he mutters.

“There’s no rash,” she replies in complaint. “It’s Brucella- it has to be, if you let us take an LP-”

“A painful procedure for something the patient doesn’t have.”

“But-”

“You’re the autoimmune expert,” House interrupts.

She halts. Closes her mouth to swallow her retort. Then, “You think it’s autoimmune, now?”

“Could be.”

“It sounds like you’re just guessing.”

“Throw a dart with your eyes closed- that’s how you treat patients, right?” When Cameron looks like she’s about to explode, House continues, “I’m not just guessing, you’re right about the no rash thing. But I’m also right that it’s not Meningitis. Do an ANA test.”

She crosses her arms, hovering in front of his desk like she has no intention of going at all. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Lupus.”

Cameron deflates, jaw dropping. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s a longshot,” he admits.

“It’s more than that, those tests hardly confirm lupus, especially when the patient doesn’t present with all the symptoms.”

“It could confirm something else.”

When her expression changes from disbelief to something closer than concern, House rolls his eyes and stands up, wandering over to the window. The rain is almost fun to watch. Cameron doing her martyr thing with him isn’t. It makes him feel uncomfortable and weird, almost guilty. 

“Here we go.”

“This isn’t like you,” she says softly. 

“Yeah I…” he trails off. “I tried to record General Practice on Teevo last night and it… it didn’t work. Cameron, it didn’t work. I’ve-” he sobs. “I’ve just not been the same since.”

He’s making this joke to his reflection in the window. Suddenly looking outside seems less relaxing. 

“You know if there’s something going on…”

House turns towards her, and she takes a literal step away from him the moment she sees his expression. “What, I’ll just spill my heart to you over a tub of Ben & Jerry’s?”

“OK,” she replies. Great, she looks offended. To be fair, House would rather piss her off than hurt her feelings. “Fine, I was trying to be nice.”

“And I just love it when people are nice to me to assuage their own guilt and feed their curiosity,” he bites. 

There’s a moment where they both just stare. Cameron hardens, her eyes shine. She doesn’t always cry when she’s angry, but she does when it’s House. He wonders why on earth she loved him. He hopes she still doesn’t. And then, with a curt shake of her head, she marches out of his office. 

House watches her leave and lets out a silent sigh. Tilting his head to one side and closing his eyes, leaning on his cane. 

Either he can keep kicking and snarling at anyone who tries to talk to him today, or he can put his big-boy pants on and go talk to Wilson. He isn’t ready. But he is ready to admit that he _is_ off his game, when he can’t afford to be. And, to his abhorrence, his feelings for Wilson are the reason. They’re distracting. He can’t have distractions, not from this, not from his work. 

_Wilson._ The bastard. This is all his fault. 

000

House takes the lift down to the reception area to find him. He spots him instantly. Wilson once made a comment about whether some alarm goes off when he has food; maybe it’s just that House has some creepy, stalkerish honing system built in to find him wherever he is. (It isn’t. He checked the rota and knew he’d be down here leaving clinic duty.)

He’s talking to Dr Anderson from oncology, a file under his arm, their words inaudible from here. And he’s wearing that stupid candy-cane tie that makes him look like a Mary Poppins extra who left his top-hat and cane elsewhere. Underneath that white coat, though, he knows that the sleeves are rolled up and there’s probably still a mustard stain on the cuff from lunch. And there are bags under his eyes; he’s been sleeping less than usual. Mr Perfect Hair ain’t so perfect, something House reckons not many people know. 

Stepping out cane-leg first, House ambles into the atrium. Wilson finishes his conversation with Dr Not-As-Good-An-Oncologist-As-Wilson and goes to chat with the nurse behind the reception desk. 

House’s pace slows. And then it stops. He lingers and watches. 

Wilson has a habit of talking to people like he’s known them their whole lives. It’s friendliness to the max- to the point that it creeps House out. It doesn’t seem strange to anyone else, exemplified by the fact that the majority of the world’s population think of Wilson as a buddy. But, sometimes, the friendliness tumbles into flirtation. Like now, as he leans across the desk, resting on his elbows and smiling at the pretty nurse in pink scrubs. Another conversation House can’t hear, although he knows how it goes. The nurse is smiling back- of course she is, she’d be crazy not to. That’s how people always respond when they talk to Wilson in the early days, and considering that House doesn’t recognise this nurse, he reckons she’s a newbie. By this point, most of the nursing staff have had innocent flirtations with him. A handful have been the sidepieces that made Wilson’s second wife so jealous. 

It’s impossible not to watch. When House watches surgeries, watches patients waste away, he does so through intellectual fascination. This, though- watching Wilson flirting with someone, watching Stacy laughing with Mark- he stands back and watches those things with morbid fascination. Because these are the things that he feels, one day, might kill him if he doesn’t do something to protect himself. 

His leg begins to hurt- more so than usual. He’s been standing here staring for too long, so he looks down at his shoes. And thinks. 

And then he stops thinking, because he’s too angry to.

“HEY! WILSON!”

The atrium stills. Patients look up from their two-week old magazines and search for the crazy shouting man. The doctors all know exactly who the crazy shouting man is, and immediately find House, lingering, face like thunder. 

Wilson gapes at him. Then he rubs his forehead and apologises to the nurse. He looks embarrassed. 

Good.

By the way he’s powering over to him, leaning a little into his walk, he isn’t happy with House’s sudden announcement.

“ _What?_ ” he demands, when he reaches him. And then he keeps walking towards the lift. When House doesn’t follow, he turns and says, “No, there is no way we’re having a conversation here. My office, _now_.”

House’s resolve crumbles a little. He redirects his nerves by grimacing at one of the nearby nurses and saying with child-like concern, “I think I made daddy angry.”

“In. Now.”

House does as Wilson says, stepping into the elevator. The seconds that pass before the doors finish closing are icy; Wilson stands still beside House and sighs slowly. As if he’s trying to count his breaths. 

The lift dings. Wilson turns towards House.

“You do realise that I have an actual job, don’t you?”

“Oh, right, you looked real busy flirting with Nurse McScrew-Me.”

“I was literally just _talking_ to her, House. This-” 

Wilson stops. Fumbles for the words. Shakes his head when he decides there are none, and presses the emergency stop button. Apparently, his office is not close enough. The lights flicker off, and the back-up lights blink on. They’re dimmer, and Wilson’s face seems more shadowed. 

House presses a hand against the wall to stop himself from falling. He glares at Wilson. “Hey!”

“If you ‘hey’ me one more time today, I swear I’ll saw this cane in half, too.”

“What’s your problem?”

“What’s-? What’s- are you serious right now? What’s _my_ problem?” he laughs, hands on his chest. “I’m just trying to get on with my life, and _you_ are turning more and more into an eight year old! What the hell is going on, House?”

“Nothing!”

“Except for the fact that you’re clearly so angry with me about something you can’t work, you can’t hold a normal conversation- relatively speaking that is- and you have all living creatures fleeing in within a three-mile radius! So! Spit it out!”

At that, Wilson puts his hands on his hips. That classic Wilson-pose that makes him both unthreatening and authoritative all at once. It invites the chance to open-up without demanding it; House wishes he found it patronising, but he doesn’t. 

He could open-up, of course. Tell Wilson in the middle of the lift that he loves him. The emergency services will come soon if he doesn’t say something. House is stubborn, but Wilson is just as bad- they could be here forever. Alternatively, he could _not_ humiliate himself in a lift, then risk being stuck here for half an hour before the fire department arrive. That sounds very not fun. 

“I’m-” House starts, then stops, trying to find something to say. Something that isn’t what he wants to say, but could also be the truth. Wilson waits, brows raised, patience wearing. “Yeah, I’m acting pissy. I’m feeling _vulnerable_ after our conversation yesterday, and I’m therefore _angry_. I got shot and almost died a couple of months ago, I’m in pain, and my daddy used to beat me up. That sounds like the kind of psychotherapy bullshit that you want me to say, right? Do I get an A+ in Therapy 101?”

House holds his ground, stares at Wilson, stares him down till he reacts. Wilson stares back, looking unmoved, even if House knows otherwise. 

Meanwhile, behind House’s stare, his mind is whirring; how the hell did he find it easier to say _all that_ than ‘hey, Wilson, I have a big ol’ high-school crush on you’? As much as he said it with sarcasm as thick as treacle, they both know everything that just came out of his mouth is based on truth. Stuff he doesn’t say unless he’s drunk or high. 

Wilson takes in a deep breath, and the staring contest is broken. He shakes his head, shoulders sagging. And he presses the emergency stop button again. The lights flicker back on. 

“Are we _good_ now?” House says wryly. 

“No,” Wilson replies easily. House feels his stomach shift in surprise. “No, we’re not good House. You’re being a dick. And I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

“It’s both our problems. So I’m coming to yours tonight. With Chinese food.”

The doors open, and Wilson steps out. House doesn’t follow; he’s too busy trying to translate Wilson’s language. Obviously, he wants to talk more about whatever’s going on between them right now. But he’s not making it clear whether he’s angry at him still or not, or whether he’s worried, or both. 

Wilson turns to speak to him one last time before the doors close. “I’ll be there seven-ish. You get the beers.”

The doors close and House suddenly begins to feel very nervous indeed.

000000

House was right about lupus. 

The team are furious about it, but accept their unified stupidity and House’s god-like skills with their usual defeatist attitude. That is, they roll their eyes and sag their shoulders and go and administer the meds without another word- it must be exhausting, consistently being proved wrong by House. 

It puts him in a brilliant mood. He feels chirpier than he has all week. It’s when he’s heading home, turning his coat collar up with one hand and leaning against his cane with the other, that he realises that this mood will only last another hour or so. He’s more than familiar with the temporary effects of a ‘high’- drug induced or not. No, soon he’ll be home, then he’ll remember what’s been on his mind this week. 

“House.”

He’s almost out the door when Cuddy’s voice stops him. He turns slowly, with pursed lips. “Have you found anything for that, by the way?”

Cuddy bustles over. She only ever bustles or marches- House has never seen her move any other way. “For what?”

House indicates to his throat. “The irritating, shrill voice. I’m sure there are surgeons here who’d agree to performing a larynx transplant, if you asked nicely.”

“Very nice. I see you’re feeling better today.”

“Been feeling fine all week.”

“Wilson and your team seem to think otherwise-”

“What did he tell you?” House demands, suddenly feeling hot with betrayal. 

“Nothing,” Cuddy replies, eyes wide and one eyebrow arched. She looks him up and down. “He’s _worried_ about you. He didn’t even tell me so, I can just tell because it’s painfully obvious. I’ve known you both well enough to notice that when you’re being more of an asshole than usual, he worries more.”

It’s bad. He should have realised that he’s been worrying Wilson. He should notice those things about his best friend, but he doesn’t. He notices whether he’s been shaving, whether he’s forgotten to iron his shirt, whether he’s changed shampoos. And whether he’s _generally_ worrying about something, but not when he’s worrying about _him_. He has no idea what that means.

“I’m fine. Solved the case, won first prize, got the girl,” House mutters, not looking Cuddy directly in the eye. The line of patients in the waiting room is suddenly more interesting. 

“Uh-huh…” Cuddy says slowly, exaggeratedly. “I just wanted to let you know that our celebrity patient is responding well and is hoping to do a TV interview tomorrow morning. I’ve just OK’d it. Thought you might like to watch.”

She says this carefully, with that intonation to her voice that says she’s judging House for flipping out just now. She’s right to, it’s ridiculous. Wilson was right, too, he’s turning into a child. 

“Great,” he replies. Breathes out through his nose. Then, with as much sarcasm as he can muster, “Make sure he gives me a mention. I wanna tell all my friends and family to watch.”

“Goodnight, House,” she says with some exhaustion.

Well, that conversation certainly killed his mood quickly. He turns and leaves, hears Cuddy’s heels against the floor. The doors close again, the cold March air hitting him in a cloud. 

The bike takes him home too quickly. He was hoping to have some time to sort through his thoughts- so he does another lap around the block, just to listen to the bike’s growl and feel it humming. He doesn’t manage to sort through any more thoughts when he finishes said lap. So, he parks and heads back inside. 

The flat is warm. He turns on some side lamps, strips off his coat and scarf, hangs them. Throws his cane onto the sofa and goes to pour himself a whisky. He sits for a while and drinks, finding his thoughts just as muddled as before. The only defining feature of all of them being Wilson. 

House grumbles to himself, goes to the piano stool and mindlessly plays some jingle he heard on tv this morning. His hands flow up and down the keyboard until it turns into Chopin. Wilson always preferred Jazz-

He hangs his head, and his hands still. 

He’s sick. He must be. It doesn’t take an entire decade for feelings to suddenly materialise and… present symptoms. Except he definitely loves Wilson, and he thinks he may have done for a long time. It’s just that he’s only just realised. Yes, it’s laid dormant for years, and now, something has triggered it to cause all of this crap. The tell-tale urge to write love songs and cry in front of rom-coms at 3am. The temptation to reach for the phone and text, not knowing what to say. 

“Ugh,” he complains out loud.

Music swells- he’s playing absent-mindedly. What could have triggered it? It wasn’t the bi thing- he’s known that he’s bi-curious since he was a teenager. He didn’t do anything about it till college, when he realised- nope, not just curious, definitely just bi. He never told Wilson because it never seemed relevant to anyone. Nobody’s business. But then at some point this week, he started feeling the squirmies in his tummy. Butterflies left right and centre, and somehow that made him desperate to ask Wilson whether he was completely straight or not. Desperate to know if he had a shot. 

Turns out, he does, what with Wilson being on the same page. The Bacon in LGBTQ+. But that does not mean the feelings are mutual.

What made those caterpillars emerge into beautiful, lovesick butterflies, though? House isn’t sure and that’s what’s driving him crazy. He’s suddenly painfully aware of being in love, and it feels like it’s come out of nowhere. Maybe he really is sick. 

He’s tested himself for syphilis, so it’s not an infection of the brain. 

No, the more obvious and less stupid answer is that he and Wilson have shared a lot over their friendship. Enough that they trust each other and care about each other deeply. More deeply than House has ever experienced with anyone else. It’s deeper than House’s iceberg of loathing and trauma. Maybe it’s only now that it’s reached a point that House has been able to notice anything other than pain. 

He sighs. Looks down at his hands. They rest on the keyboard, fingers splayed. He looks up, takes the Vicodin bottle, shakes it and downs one. And then, he grabs his wallet. 

House collapses onto the sofa, the leather creaking, and puts his leg up on the table. In his wallet there are several useless receipts, a few notes. Tucked behind his credit and debit cards is a photo. He removes it, unfolds it carefully; there are white creases where it was folded. It’s dog-eared. It’s a photo of him and Wilson.

It was just before the leg thing. A candid photo, of course, because House doesn’t allow any other kind- meaning, he doesn’t allow any photos taken of him, and if there are any, it’s because he didn’t realise they were taken in the first place. They’re sat in the booth of a bar; Stacy took this photo. House is gesticulating with his hands, irritation and amusement on his face as if he’s arguing with them both about something ridiculous. He has absolutely no recollection of this moment. And Wilson is laughing, a hand on his chest and eyes closed. They’re both a bit red faced, drunk as hell. Empty beer bottles scattered across the table. They’re sat close, not noticing that they’re bumping into each other, being in an alcohol induced stupor. 

House was never really sure why he liked the picture. It’s not that it’s before the leg, and they’re both happy- because he’s hidden most photos pre-infarction. Or thrown them out. He doesn’t like being reminded of anything beforehand. And yet this photo was different, making him feel something other than resentment. The reason seems pretty obvious now. 

He’s leaning a little across Wilson in the photo. They’ve always worked naturally with each other, even when they hate each other. Which is half the time, at least. 

The doorbell rings. House folds the photo, slides it back into the safety of the wallet. 

“Door’s unlocked,” he yells. 

The door clicks open. Wilson shuffles in, and the door clicks shut again. He can smell the food. 

He turns around and looks at Wilson over the back of the sofa. “Did you get-”

“Kung pao chicken and lemon chicken. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I even got some extras. Dunno about you, but I’m extra hungry today for some reason.”

House narrows his eyes at the back of Wilson’s head as he aims for the kitchen, dumping the takeaway bags. Then he shrugs off his coat, slinging it temporarily (House hopes) across the counter. His sleeves rolled up. Why does that stand out to House so much? He isn’t sure. There’s something sort of sexy about it. 

“What, so… we’re doing pleasantries now?” House calls. Wilson unloads the Chinese food. “Since when did we start pretending we aren’t angry with each other?”

“OK, so, that’s where you’re mistaken,” Wilson replies, pointing an index finger over his opposite shoulder. “I’m not angry. You are, I just don’t know why.”

“I’m not angry, I’m just _disappointed_.”

Wilson sighs. 

“Oh, please, Doctor House, tell me why you’re disappointed, I must know or I shall languish in distress,” he says in his most mocking ‘humouring House’ voice. 

It’s then that House realises he isn’t sure what to say. He watches from the sofa as Wilson stoically ignores him, or at least appears to as he takes out plates from the cupboard. “Yesterday.”

“The bi thing.”

“The bi thing isn’t a thing,” House says. “You were acting weird yesterday, and today, even though you’re saying you’re not angry. The problem is that there clearly is a thing, you’re just not _telling_ me the thing.”

“What makes you think there’s a thing?”

“Because when you worry about something it’s written all over your face. And this time it’s been brought to my attention that you’re worried about me.”

Wilson drops a bottle of beer loudly onto the counter. “ _God_ Cuddy has a big mouth-”

“Except instead of telling me that, you hide it. You never hide it when you’re worried about my addiction or tendency towards malpractice-”

Wilson barks a mirthless laugh. 

“- Which means you’re worried about something else and you don’t want me to know that you’re worrying.”

He sighs. Turns around, not looking House in the eye as he paces through the kitchen. “Yes. I’m worried about you. There’s a thing. And maybe, just maybe, I would actually talk to you about it if you _weren’t such a giant dick_ ,” he practically yells. 

“Stop worrying about me and get a new hobby.”

“I’d love to, truly.”

He does look tired. Whatever it is that’s on his mind, it’s big. And it’s been a long time coming. “What’s caused this? Why now?”

There’s a stretch of quiet as Wilson seems to think about this. He leans against the island, styled hair beginning to lose its shape. It hangs loosely in front of his face. And then, he walks around to the other side of the island. He’s doing the hand-on-hip thing again. 

“This is different to last time,” Wilson says.

“You’re gonna have to expand.”

“Last time you were like this, you were getting over Stacy. The pain in your leg got worse, your mood was erratic, you pushed everyone away, you lost your medical mojo.” He sighs. “I’m just wondering what’s done it this time, if not Stacy. If not- heartbreak.”

For a long moment, Wilson simply looks at him- as if he’s letting that sink in. And then he starts plating up for himself. Now would be a good time for House to tell him. To do the right thing. But- 

“’House is sad, so he’s being mean.’ That’s it? Yeah, I get it, I’m bad with emotions. I just don’t know how to handle them. My body rejects them like poison.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say and you know it.”

“Do I?” House demands, standing from the sofa. “I dunno, it feels like there’s some mixed signals. Some lack of communication. I say that you leaning across the reception desk like a French girl is flirtatious, you say it’s just two buds being buddies.”

Wilson stares. His jaw drops. He flounders, scoffs, gesticulates helplessly. “God! That’s what today was about? You’re- you’re unbelievable. I’m not allowed to make other friends ‘cause it makes you jealous. You’re jealous. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worse than Bonnie.”

“Yah,” House scoffs right back. “She kinda had a reason to be jealous, though, huh?”

Wilson drops the egg-fried rice on the kitchen island and little bits go flying. He shakes his head. “You know what, House? I hate you. I really, honestly hate you sometimes.”

House bristles. “What, is that meant to hurt my feelings? Make me throw myself onto my bed and cry into my Lizzie McGuire bedsheets?”

Wilson growls. “You know the thing with me and you?”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me, Jimmy.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to gather the energy to push out whatever it is he’s dreading saying. “My wives? I was dedicated to them. I didn’t love them- no, not quite. ‘Cause I thought being dedicated meant being in love, and it’s not-”

“When’s this gonna stop being a therapy session and start being relevant to me?”

“And with you? It’s not all that different- I am dedicated to you. Utterly. Except, it’s even worse than what I had with my ex-wives. With you, it’s obsession. I’m obsessed with you.”

House doesn’t even know what to say. 

“And it’s- it’s- it’s toxic! It’s making me sick- _you_ make me sick. The ex-wives, they just made me depressed, but you, House? You actually poison me.”

“Yeah. Got it. I’m your local, poisonous disabled person who makes your life a misery-” Wilson looks like he’s about to retort, eyes rolling, “- it’ll give you the _worst_ hangover, but don’t worry, a couple of aspirin should do the trick-”

“Oh _fuck_ off- see, this is exactly what I’m saying! That doesn’t even make sense! And I spend my life trying to think of something- something witty, and hilarious as a comeback, because it’s fun, and then somehow I then find myself sat on the bathroom floor cleaning on your vomit- and I don’t even _notice_ the progression from the one to the other because I’m totally addicted to you. It’s, like, the least healthy thing in the world.”

People describe this feeling as having a rug taken out from under you. House reckons that’s fairly accurate; it feels more like the whole world though. All of this; it may as well have come out of nowhere. “Addicted,” he says with some resignation.

Wilson sighs, rubs his temple. “Ok. Great, so you’re choosing now to be the type of person who gets offended.”

 _Hadn’t Stacy said something similar?_ , he realises. “No, no, not at all. I have no problem with addiction. Addicted is a term I can understand, right? Because, how else would I understand caring about something? _Let’s put friendship into terms that House can understand- ‘I’m addicted to you’._ And you say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“I don’t think friendship is a bad thing. I think friendship with you is a bad thing.”

“And this is news to you?” House yells. “We’ve had this conversation before- same argument, different words. You hate me. Yet I’m you’re best friend. You wanna _fix_ me. You can’t, so you hate me. And then _I_ tell you that it’s your fault for wanting to fix me in the first place, and I push you away, then I come back and grovel and you give me the cold shoulder till we both forgive each other and then do it all over. And we wonder why people compare us to an old, married couple.”

Wilson’s back is turned to him. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging. Hands splayed across the marble. 

“I could honestly throw this box of kung-pao chicken in your face, right now.”

“Why? Because I’m telling you the truth?”

“No, because you- reduce what we have to something so simple. Wash, rinse, repeat.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not to me,” Wilson says quietly.

Neither of them speaks for a moment. For once, they don’t know what to say.

Then, House: “I think you overcomplicate it.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I know that I love you, for example. Simple. Isn’t it? And I just take that at face value. You, however, make it into a soap opera.”

Wilson doesn’t turn around. His head, however, does pop up. He speaks to the wall when he says, “And you trust that part of yourself? You believe that you love me, even though everybody lies?”

“Ah, yes. That age-old lie that everybody lies.”

A mirthless laugh. House’s heart-rate rapid. It’s been about ten years since he’s heard himself say that word, and it tastes funny. A good funny. A sweet and sour funny. Although, maybe that’s just the Chinse food speaking. 

“Besides,” House continues a bit shakily. “Even if everybody does lie, including me- that ‘part of myself’ is pretty much the only thing I trust. Everything else about Gregory House is, as you say… toxic.”

“Boo-hoo,” Wilson retorts, without much bite.

An ambulance siren screams outside. The rain is pattering against the window. Wilson’s fingers loosen against the counter until they bend a little. He turns his face an inch towards House.

“And…” he starts slowly, “…what would you say. If _I_ were to say… that I have feelings for you too.”

“I thought it was obsession,” House says. “Not love. Or friendship, for that matter.”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

He loves it when he’s mean to him. House smiles. “Then I’d say that I don’t look good in white, and you’re allergic to marriage anyway.”

His shoulders shake, like he’s laughing silently. And then, he turns around. His eyes are red. He looks soft. Wilson has always been soft; but never yielding. “Do you think it could ever work?”

House wants one of those witty retorts that Wilson had mentioned. He hasn’t got any left in the parlour; all out of stock. “I don’t know,” he says weakly.

Wilson leans his back against the counter, hands on the edge. Tie undone. Staring at the floor. That Disney prince, floppy hair that always made House angry because he likes it so much. 

“I think,” Wilson says deliberately, “that I’m just about enough of an asshole for this to work.”

“You think the Goldilocks theory is enough?” House asks. 

“I don’t know,” Wilson echoes.

“We’ll fight.”

“Oh, yeah. All the time. This was nothing.”

“I hog the bedsheets.”

“And I don’t do washing up, so.”

They finally look at each other. Finally, their eyes meet, and as much as it seemed impossible to look him in the eye before, now it seems impossible _not_ to. Big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. Wilson really was created in a cartoon character studio- soft, round, pencil-lined edges. He’s pretty when he cries. And House knows he’s a bastard for thinking it. 

“What now?” Wilson says, not moving.

House huffs a laugh. Wilson stares; watches. Purses his lips nervously. Again, House wants to say something like: _Well, if this were a rom-com, we’d jump into bed and hump like bunnies. But maybe you can buy me a drink, first._ Even better: _Well, if we were following social norms like total chumps, we’d wait till I’ve bought you a drink before we jump into bed and hump like bunnies. I say, screw that._ Instead, he just looks right back at Wilson. 

“Pass me the kung-pao chicken,” he says quietly.

He goes to sit on the sofa, puts his legs up on the coffee table, and waits for Wilson. The television is black, but he looks at it as if he’s watching it. The sound of footsteps is music to his ears. The sofa dips, and the box of Chinese food appears before him. A plate is handed to him.

“OK, then,” Wilson says. “Your food, sir.”

God, the urge to say something stupid, like, _I love it when you talk dirty._ House opts instead to pick up the TV remote and put the tv on. A motocross race. There’s something kind of mesmerising about bikes flying around and doing flips, making angry growling noises. The two of them sit side by side on the sofa, watching motorbikes and shovelling egg fried rice into their mouths, as if they haven’t just had an argument and confessed that they love each other. 

“Beer?”

“Yeah.”

House accepts the bottle without looking, washes down the Chinese food. Rubs his leg for the thousandth time that day as he balances the plate on his lap. And they talk about the new batch of young doctors that are starting next week, the previous generation moving up into being attendings. They’re already acting far too big for their boots, and Wilson has had to slap some wrists. House, thankfully, doesn’t interact with any of the lower levels of the hospital hierarchy. Despite the fact that Princeton Plainsboro is a teaching hospital, he’s vowed never to teach more than that one lecture he gave a year ago. They talk about the documentary that was on last night that neither of them watched but was meant to be good, and they discuss how the beer they’re drinking isn’t as good as the usual brand they get from the Chinese restaurant. 

House kicks their stacked plates out of the way, makes room for his socked feet. He sits back and listens to the mind-numbingly stupid commentary of the motocross presenters. 

“The injuries these people must get,” Wilson muses, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

House looks at him. Measures the defensive pose. Blinks, stares back at the TV. “Nothing cooler than a neck cast, am I right?”

Wilson snorts. House stares vacantly at the screen. Neither of them says anything.

“So,” Wilson says.

House sighs.

“What?” Wilson argues.

“Nothing. Just- go on,” he says.

Wilson tilts his head from side to side as he thinks about what to say. House has always hated and loved how much Wilson thinks about what to say. Tortures himself over finding the right words, fumbles and hesitates so that he can get them just right. 

“Was that the thing? That’s been making you so…” he shakes his head, apparently at a loss. “…Cranky?”

“Guess so.”

They fall quiet again. The bikes whizz around like flies. 

“And you?” he asks with fake cheer. “You’ve been worrying about…?”

Wilson bobs his head from side to side again. “About… our conversation yesterday, I suppose. What it meant and whether you’d figured something out about how I felt. Feel.”

That’s something to chew on. “You were worried I’d figure out you have feelings for me. And yet, you offered to massage my leg.”

He turns to look at him. Wilson tightens his crossed arms, casts his gaze to the heavens. 

“I dunno, seems pretty gay, Wilson,” he adds.

“OK, fine,” he laughs. And they both relax, at last. “I guess it was more that I- sensed something changed between us. And I didn’t know what it was, and I was scared of getting too hopeful and misinterpreting it. And you- _you_ by the way, were the one to throw me out of your room. For being _distracting_.”

“You are,” House says.

“Oh, well,” Wilson throws his hands in the air ands scoffs good-naturedly. “Apologies.”

“It’s a compliment,” he replies, all seriousness. 

He watches Wilson figure out what that means. Waits with a knot in his chest until Wilson turns and looks at him. Dark eyes darting across his face, looking for some falsehood in his expression. The TV mutters in the background.

Then, Wilson smiles wickedly. “You really _are_ distracted by my dazzling good looks.”

House tuts and rolls his eyes and fights against a smile. “For the love of…”

“Oh my _God_!” he exclaims, turning on the sofa to face him properly. A smile so huge and perfect and- distracting. “You think I’m cute! You don’t just love me, you find me devilishly attractive! This is- this is important, I need to make note of this. I can do so much with this. I could use this for good, _and_ for evil. I could sit in on all the board meetings, even the ones that I’m not usually invited to, just sit there and give you bedroom eyes until you make an idiot of yourself. Or I could get _you_ to buy lunch for once-”

House loves it when he’s obnoxious like this. So, he leans over and kisses him. 

A hand round the back of Wilson’s neck, and a kiss more hesitant than he’d like. Not for any lack of wanting to kiss him; more that he has no idea what Wilson’s reaction will be. For some odd reason, he cares a lot about what Wilson thinks, and that makes him gentle. Wilson makes him soft, he realises, with some chagrin. 

Hesitant or not, it’s a nice kiss. It’s new, but it’s not: because it’s them. Familiar and bewildering all at once. Wilson tastes like beer and something else that’s probably just him. He can smell his aftershave, still there even at the end of the day. And when they part- just a little, the smallest distance- House feels his breath against his lips. 

So- that’s what kissing Wilson’s like. 

“You think kissing me’ll stop me from talking?”

House hums. “Dang. Didn’t work.”

There’s laughter in his eyes. “For how long, approximately, have you wanted to do that?” he asks quietly. 

House stares at his lip. “Not sure. You?”

“Not sure.”

He looks back up at the rest of his face. “You’re lying.”

“Shut up, am not.”

“Are, too.”

Wilson huffs a laugh. “Let’s go with, a while.”

“Intriguingly vague. Enough time to daydream about the perfect first date? The perfect wedding? Out of interest, in your imagination, did we get those cute little cake-toppers with the two grooms? What does the guy at the cakeshop do when he sees you for the fourth time? And asking for _two grooms_ , no less? I don’t know how progressive bakers are-”

“Shut up, House.”

Miraculously, he does. He falters midsentence as Wilson leans in and kisses him. Something slow and exploratory. Little kisses here and there that graze the lips; it makes his eyes flutter shut. A hand cupping Wilson’s neck, the space beneath his jaw; moving down his arm; holding onto him, because he’s not sure how else he’ll be able to persuade himself this is happening. 

Kissing Wilson is different. Or maybe it’s just that kissing a guy is different; Wilson’s hands in his hair feels different; the feel of stubble scrubbing against his own is definitely, thankfully, different; even his lips feel different. It’s not better or worse, just different, and House tries to dive deeper to find out more. He kisses back more deliberately, and Wilson makes noise that’s somewhere in between a hum and a moan. It’s- not something that House had ever let himself imagine before. It’s only been a week that he’s realised he might actually _want_ to hear that kind of noise from his best friend, anyway-

He feels Wilson’s hand run through his hair. It slides down his neck, over his collar bone, rests on his chest just under the opening of his shirt. 

With how much he’s feeling this kiss- from the heat of his lips down to counting the number of hours it must have been since Wilson shaved- it’s strange that he suddenly can’t feel anything.

It’s not a physical issue: he knows that Wilson’s hand is currently sliding further under his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. It’s more that his mind has suddenly gone blank. Panic. Stupid, irrational panic that ruins everything. This is something that’s happened plenty of times before- at the beginning of his thing with Stacy, with everyone else before her. He just doesn’t want to admit that it’s happening now, with Wilson, who matters more than any of those people. 

Well. Fact of the matter is, it is happening. And if he _had_ had the time to imagine sleeping with Wilson for the first time, it wouldn’t be in a dissociative state. So, he should probably do the right thing and slow this down.

It takes a lot of effort to stop him, but he does. He lays a firm but gentle hand over Wilson’s mid-unbuttoning fingers. And Wilson immediately halts- his kiss freezing against House’s lips. House pulls away. Keeping his eyes closed, laying his forehead in defeat against Wilson’s. 

“What’s up?” Wilson says in a low voice. 

He can’t shake his head when he’s propping it against Wilson's. Instead, he just exhales. Frowns to himself as he imagines what it would be like to be a normal fucking human being. There’s got to be at least three million different reasons why he can’t let himself be happy, and why sexual situations seem to be the ones he struggles with most, but it’s not as if he’s ever going to talk to a therapist about it. So he guesses it’ll just be this way for a while, until he gets more used to this thing he and Wilson have. If there’s time to get used to it- maybe it won’t last.

“Hey,” Wilson nudges his chin with his hand gently. It’s incredibly affectionate and it makes House sigh again, clench his jaw against the pain in his chest. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” House argues pathetically.

“OK, if you say so. It’s not fine. You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright,” he replies with a remarkable amount of patience. Good God, how does Wilson put up with him?

“Wilson, I’m…”

“OK, now, I know I’m constantly telling you to apologise, but this is not one of those times.”

It makes House smile, against all odds. It’s not quite a happy smile- but he acknowledges just how amazing Wilson is, and it’s hard not to smile when that happens. Because, apparently, he’s his. And he lets House lean his forehead against his for a while longer, sitting there on the sofa with stupid motorbike noises in the background. 

Eventually, House sits up straight, rubs his face wearily. Wilson takes that hand away from his face and links his fingers with his own. It completely undermines House’s wallowing in one small action; it’s almost funny. Self-loathing is the foundation of House’s personality, and Wilson simply turns it around into a cute little hand-hold. House stares at their linked hands, blinks a bit stupidly. 

“You’re staying,” he says. It was meant to come out as _You’re staying, right?_ but apparently that didn’t make him sound enough of a demanding asshole. 

Wilson pauses, watches House- like he’s measuring his mood in every word, every mannerism. His dark brown eyes still a little dilated. Then, “Yeah. If you don’t mind me schlepping around. I’ll make pancakes. That usually rouses you from your coma.”

House simply nods. Watches as their hands unlink, start playing with each other in the mindless way that couples tend to. They press their splayed hands against each other. House’s hands are bigger than Wilson’s.

“Alright,” Wilson says, sounding like he’s about to get up and get ready for bed. “Spare duvet still where it used to be?”

He’s starting to come back to himself now, dissociative state coming to a nice round close. His trademark wit seems to be founding its way back home when he replies, “I know I said I hog the duvet, but I’m not that bad. You trust me so little.”

Wilson schools his expression into something as neutral as possible, but he’s still watching House closely. Like he’s a wild animal. “So you… don’t mind me sharing with you? I’m seriously happy to camp out, if-”

He doesn’t want him to finish that sentence. “Nope,” he interrupts with a plosive ‘p’. “We can tell scary stories and eat candy till past midnight. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

It takes another moment of Wilson analysing House’s facial expressions to give in. He nods with a surprised little quirk of his brows. And they unlink hands, go get ready for bed. 

When Wilson had temporarily moved in a few months ago, after Julie had kicked him out, he’d slept on the sofa that entire time. Their bedtime routine had become pretty in sync, as a result. House showered whilst Wilson set up the sofa bed. Then House would go to bed, and Wilson would shower. Ships passing in the night. But now, it’s all messed up, since Wilson has no sofa to set up. So House ends up lying on one side of the bed, staring at the ceiling with the light off, waiting for Wilson to get out of the shower. He steps out of the bathroom in his boxers, since he doesn’t exactly have a suitcase of clothes this time. He lingers in the light of the doorway for a moment, clearly figuring out whether this is a good idea. It’s awkward and kind of cute.

House slaps the other side of the bed. “Got a Wilson-shaped space here.”

The sound of Wilson’s bare feet on the wooden floor is not something he thinks he can get used to. Instead of the bed, he shuffles to House’s chest of drawers. “You have a t-shirt I can borrow? It’s cold tonight.”

“Yeah, bottom drawer.”

The streetlight outside makes his crouching silhouette even more unfamiliar. He can just make out the shape of his shoulder blades. Wilson grabs his Johns Hopkins t-shirt. There’s something mesmerising about watching Wilson pull one of his shirts over his head. 

Wilson takes the other side of the bed, the mattress dipping. They lie side-by-side in silence, staring at the ceiling. The alarm clock ticks softly. The room is night-time blue. Wilson breathes quietly, like he’s self-conscious of how loud he’s being. 

After about fifteen minutes, Wilson turns onto his side, and House assumes that means he’s fallen asleep. Meanwhile, he studies the shape of his lampshade, something he’s done too many times to count. Insomnia’s a bitch. 

Wilson asleep beside him. Obviously, he wants to reach out. Wrap an arm around him, spoon him, something. Kiss the back of his neck. He’d wanted that kiss from earlier to snowball- he wanted to wake up in the morning and joke with Wilson about how _one thing led to another. Who knew kung-pao chicken was an aphrodisiac?_. But he couldn’t- or more, his brain wouldn’t let him. He’d thought maybe that wouldn’t happen this time; with everyone else, he shut down, but with Wilson, he’d hoped it would be different.

He’s known Wilson for so long. He trusts him- almost as much as he trusts himself. He likes him a whole lot more than he likes himself. He loves him, in fact, and shouldn’t that be enough? Except it rarely is, is it? Love is rarely enough, it never has been for House. It never has been for Wilson, either- three failed marriages just proves it. Love doesn’t conquer all, not even PTSD and self-hatred. So who’s to say this will work? Just because they’ve been best friends? Just because they care? Wilson couldn’t make it stick with any of the others, so why should House be any different?

The honest truth is that House isn’t different. Wilson is right- he’s always been attracted to the fixer-uppers. And House is the ultimate challenge in that respect. At some point, he’ll give up on House, House will realise he’s given up, and he’ll turn into a monster, guilt-tripping Wilson any way he can. Punishing him for abandoning him. And then they’ll hate each other, and everything they’ve had until now will be destroyed. They’ve only just managed to maintain a friendship. How could he expect Wilson to stay through a _relationship_ with him.

The dread of it, the inevitability of it settles in his stomach like an anchor. He takes a deep breath, feels his hands rise and fall where they’re resting on his stomach. 

“You’re sucky at pretending to be asleep,” Wilson says.

House huffs, smiles. “I’m sorry, was my being completely silent and still keeping you awake?”

“Yes,” Wilson retorts. His back is facing him, and he doesn’t turn around when he continues, “What are you torturing yourself over, now?”

House grits his teeth against the irritation. “Stop snooping around inside my head. I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood,” he replies with amusement.

House stares at the dark ceiling. “Go to sleep.”

“Love to,” Wilson says. “Can’t.”

The silence that stretches between them doesn’t invite sleep. It’s waiting for the silence to be filled with conversation. House sighs, gives in.

“I don’t think this will work.” 

Wilson doesn’t say anything. His breathing doesn’t change. Then, as if he was expecting this the whole time, “ _Go on_.”

“You won’t want to stay,” House adds. He tries not to sigh again, but he does. “You’re only here because you’re getting out of a bad marriage. I’m your life-raft.”

Wilson snorts. House turns his head and frowns at the square of his shoulders. 

“And _you’re_ only here through pure chance,” he replies.

“What do you mean?” he asks quietly.

There’s a pause. House wishes he could see Wilson’s face. “Not many people are fortunate enough to survive overdoses, infarctions, and being shot.”

He stares through the dark. Neither of them seem to be able to respond to each other without pausing and thinking. Like the fact that it’s some weird hour of the night means they can’t talk normally; everything feels more important. 

House hums. “I guess I did almost die a couple of times.”

“Correction- you _did_ die. And then you came back after a minute and twelve seconds. “

“Eh. A minor detail in an otherwise-”

“If _I_ almost died and then came back,” Wilson says more loudly, “would you hang around and wait to see if something happened? Risk the chance of me dying _again_? Or would you take that chance?”

The sudden change in tone is surprising. It makes House hesitate. He tries to measure Wilson’s mood, tries to predict where this is going, but all he can do is follow the planes of his shoulders and waist, the edge to his voice. “That’s irrelevant-”

Wilson rolls onto his back and looks at House. Wide eyes. Angry breaths making his chest rise and fall quickly. “Would you take the chance on me? If this were my last day?”

“But it’s not, so-”

“Would you?”

House looks at Wilson. He hadn’t realised. He hadn’t realised how much he mattered to him, and now he’s seeing it. Wilson’s showing him everything, now. “Of course,” he breathes. 

Wilson blinks rapidly, purses his lips. “You almost died twice. I’ve loved you for a long time, House, and I never thought this would happen. And then there was a while where it didn’t even look like we’d be friends anymore, and you almost died, and I thought I’d lost you forever. Twice. Twice- you have _no idea_ -”

“OK. OK-”

“Shut up for once in your life!” Wilson’s voice goes ragged. “You _selfish bastard_ \- I know I cheat and I know run away but I’ve never run away from you- not even when you were dead-”

“OK. Come here. Come here.”

House has to pull him in. When he crushes Wilson to his chest, he feels tears. He presses his lips to the top of his head and breathes him in. A hand rubbing his back, another one holding him there tightly. He’s shivering a little.

“I’m sorry,” House whispers. 

They lie there in the dark, House breathing as slowly and evenly as he can manage. He closes his eyes and lets the feeling of Wilson laying his head on his chest be the only thing he thinks about. Wilson’s grip on his t-shirt loosening. The sound of his breathing slowing. The smell of his shampoo and his hair tickling his chin.

And it feels just right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the fluff...

Wilson wakes up in the morning with his head on House’s arm. 

The first thing he sees when his eyes blink open is the ray of sunshine through the crack in the curtains. He sees the sheets, the edge of the bed, the dark wood of House’s matching furniture. And then he sees House’s hand poking out, his head resting on the inside of his elbow. 

He rolls onto his back slowly. House looks out for the count. There’s something kind of strange about seeing him asleep. Vulnerable. Wilson thinks a lot of people would struggle to imagine House with his eyes closed- some ancient creature who never eats, never sleeps. But there he is, lips a little parted, breathing deeply and slowly. Brows furrowed slightly. Wilson could indulge himself and watch, but he knows that if House wakes up and finds him looking, he’d never hear the end of it. 

With a small stretch, he sits up, rubs his face, ruffles his hair. He slept… surprisingly well last night. Given everything that happened yesterday. The cruel things they said to each other. The nice things they said to each other. Confessing their undying love for each other. Falling asleep, crying in House’s arms. Of course, only _they_ would manage to do all four of those things within the space of an evening. 

Wilson gathers the energy to swing his legs out of bed. He finds a grabby hand stopping him, reaching for his borrowed t-shirt. 

“Mmph. Stay.”

House has cracked open one eye, wincing at him as he tries to pull Wilson back down. Wilson doesn’t put up much of a fight, lying back and letting House pull him into a bear hug. It’s ribcage crushing. 

“You’re-” he wheezes. “You’re a lot more of a cuddler than I imagined.”

House makes a low, disgruntled hum. “If I let you get out of bed, you’ll just go somewhere and do something loud and annoying.”

Referring, of course, to his morning routine when he lived here for that short period. “Clipping toenails is not a noisy activity.”

“You’d think. And yet.”

“Bathrooms echo, I don’t have radioactive toenails.”

“No, you just have a particular aura that makes minor things irritating,” House agrees. “You also blow-dry your hair at ungodly hours.”

“Nine o’clock is not ungodly,” Wilson argues, face squished against House’s chest. He’d complain, but he’s actually pretty happy there. “You just don’t have a human sleep cycle.”

“The only thing that saved me from killing you was your cooking.”

Wilson closes his eyes, throws an arm across House. “Well. Doesn’t look like I’m escaping either way.”

“Nope. Better get used to it.”

That makes him smile. He lets his head rise and fall with House’s breathing, where it lies on his chest. They stay there for a while, not sleeping, but not awake, either. 

“Time’s it?” he asks eventually.

House exhales, grumbles. Wilson hears his hand fumbling for the clock. “Eight-thirty.”

“We’re gonna be late,” he mumbles. 

House makes a noise of complaint. “I thought you were gonna make pancakes.”

He kicks him. “You made me stay in bed.”

“Didn’t make you do anything. I told you to stay and you did.”

“Ugh.”

They lie there for another few minutes. Then, with some will-power, Wilson rolls away from House’s embrace (a strange thought in of itself) and swings his legs out of bed. The floor is cold. He rubs his face. Pads over towards the bathroom. 

Before he leaves the bedroom, he pauses in the doorway; turns around and looks at House. Who’s looking back at him. They’re looking at each other, absorbing the unfamiliar. House in his white t-shirt and blue pyjama bottoms. Wilson in his underwear and borrowed university t-shirt. Morning birds singing outside. It’s all very domestic. It’s nice.

“What’re _you_ staring at?” House demands. 

“Aaaaand the moment’s gone,” he announces, heading to the bathroom as he originally intended. 

One of the things House hated about living with him is that Wilson showers twice a day. Once in the morning to wash his hair, once in the evening to get all the hospital gunk off him. In House’s eyes, his obsession with grooming is vain, and has nothing to do with concern over hygiene. It’s sort of a bit of both; he likes to look good, because it makes him feel good. If other people notice that he looks good, then that’s fine. If _House_ notices that he looks good, giving him a back-handed compliment or shrouding a nice comment with sarcasm, then in Wilson’s mind, he’s won. It’s a lot easier to get House to notice when he looks like shit than when he looks nice. The guy has a habit of pointing out his five-o’clock shadow, or a grey hair peeking out at his temple. He’s sure it’s a sign of closeness, or friendship, in some other universe. 

Showering at House’s brings a whole new level of closeness. Until now, he’s never seen it as weird. They’re friends. They’ve seen each other in all sorts of uncompromising positions. But it’s a little different, waking up in said friend’s pyjamas, in his bed, in _his arms_ , opening up their hearts to each other, and then taking a shower. They slept together, even if they didn’t _sleep_ together, and that sort of makes this feel more like ‘the morning after’. 

He steps out of the shower, finds a towel in the airing cupboard to steal. Changes into yesterday’s clothes. And- House is going to hate him for this, Wilson thinks with great amusement- he takes out the spare hairdryer he hid here last time. It was meant to be a gentle prank on House, but he’s patting himself on the back for it now. 

The moment he switches it on, he stares at his reflection, wet floppy hair in his eyes, and bites his lip, waiting. 

“Are you _FUCKING_ SERIOUS?”

Wilson stifles a laugh. Tries to dry his hair with nonchalance, using House’s comb to straighten the waves into something manageable. He’d look like Albert Einstein if he didn’t. He doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps approaching- he just sees House’s disgruntled face and bed-head poke through the gap in the bathroom door. 

“Why do you hate me?” House sobs theatrically.

“I’m drying my hair,” he replies simply.

“You’re driving me insane,” House corrects.

“Better get used to it.”

“Where did you even get that? Were you hiding it up your ass this entire time, or something?”

“The human body is an amazing thing.”

House grumbles, steps into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Wilson snorts to himself, spends another ten minutes drying his hair. The image of them in the mirror, side by side, elicits that same domestic feeling he had a few minutes ago, before House ruined it. Sure, House looks like he’s about to murder him, giving him the death stare of the century, but Wilson is enjoying the moment. His reflection showing him running his fingers through his hair. House’s beside him, hunched over the sink, spitting out toothpaste with a bit more force than necessary. Then he leaves Wilson to it without another word. 

He’s in there for another minute or so, brushing his teeth with his finger- they’re not quite at the stage of sharing toothbrushes yet, thank you very much- when he hears an almighty clatter from the kitchen. Staring at his reflection, he listens to the sound of House waging war with his pots and pans, launching cutlery about the room and slamming cupboard doors. 

Wilson finishes up, steps out of the bathroom. Slowly approaches the kitchen with the certainty of a parent who knows their teenage kid has trashed the place after a party. 

House has a jar in one hand and a spatula in the other. He’s taken out a slow cooker, three plates, two mugs and several pieces of silverware, scattered them on the counter, and slathered them in peanut butter. He stands there in his pyjamas, armed with condiments, and gives Wilson his innocent ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ expression.

“I wanted a snack,” he explains with a shrug and a sweet smile. “You don’t mind washing up, do you?”

House drops the spatula, takes a clean knife and starts making himself breakfast. 

“I’m sure your kitchenware deserved it.” Wilson watches House standing there amidst his peanut butter ruined kitchen. “I see you’re being productive and getting ahead on the whole ‘pushing me out of your life’ thing.”

“You started it with your hair,” House accuses, pointing a butter knife at him. 

“You think I’m handsome,” he reminds him smugly.

House slams the peanut butter tub on the kitchen counter. Wilson laughs. 

“And I thought we were getting somewhere last night.”

“Don’t let this delude you,” House bites. If he tries hard enough, Wilson thinks he can see fangs there somewhere. “We aren’t a couple. We’re two, screwed-up, old men trying to make something impossible work. Square peg, round hole.”

“Wow,” Wilson remarks. “You really must be stressed out about this if you managed to say ‘square peg, round hole’ without turning it into a sexual innuendo.”

House attacks his toast with the peanut butter knife. The bread is tearing. He leaves the ruined remains of his sandwich on the counter and throws the knife into the sink from the opposite side of the kitchen. It lands with an angry clatter. Wilson watches this thinly veiled display of self-sabotage with his hands on his hips. 

“OK. Which part of last night is this tantrum about?” he asks wearily.

House shoves the sandwich in his mouth, leaves the kitchen with a hand on his bad leg. “Back off,” he says with mouth full. 

“Is it the abandonment issues?”

“We’re not discussing this,” House calls as he goes into his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

Wilson follows. Then he hovers by the doorway, talking through the opening as House presumably gets changed. “Right. The fact that you’re actually responding says otherwise.”

“Which part of me throwing knives across the kitchen and telling you to back off did you not understand?”

“Do you think I’m gonna… cheat on you? Or something?”

“You are a cheater, Jimmy. The first step in recovery is accepting it,” House replies with the cadence of a patronising counsellor. 

"Are you, maybe, I dunno, jealous? Of my exes? When you found out I moved out of your place to stay with Grace, you were kinda..."

"You're right. You got me. I'm jealous of your ex-cancer-chick. I just _wish_ I had her cheekbones."

“Is it the fact that we didn’t sleep with each other last night?”

Radio silence. Other than the susurration of the closet door closing. Then, “I have a drool patch on my pyjamas that begs to differ.”

Wilson leans against the wall. Out of habit, he reaches to touch his wedding ring, finds nothing there. Obviously. He looks down at his hands; there’s the indent on his fourth finger, but no ring. He feels no remorse, not really. It’s one less thing to self-consciously fuss over. 

“You know,” he starts, suddenly quite relieved that they can’t see each other, “I don’t care about the sex aspect of things. Believe me, I’ve thought about you and I plenty-”

“Stop, you’re making me blush,” House replies sardonically through the door. 

“- not in that way,” he says, lying through his teeth, “I meant in the sense that I’ve imagined what it would mean to be in a relationship with you. I’ve seen you in relationships, but with you and _I_ \- I think it means something different compared to what we’ve had with anyone else before. If I’m being honest, I have no clue what a relationship with the two of us will look like. I can… guarantee it won’t be conventional.”

House doesn’t try to interrupt. He can hear the sound of material, of clothes being thrown on, taken off, put back on again. As if he’s fussing over what shirt to wear, which doesn’t seem particularly characteristic. 

“All I know is I care about you-”

House retches.

“-And I’m willing to see what happens. Even if this is the sort of relationship where we fight over the TV remote and maybe go on a date, but nothing more. At this point, if it’s a little different from what I’ve experienced before in my marriages, then that can only be a good thing.”

Silence stretches between them. Wilson waits, hands pressed against the wall. He wants to open the door.

“House.”

“Yeah, present,” he replies.

He waits for more, but nothing comes. Footsteps approach and Wilson stands up properly- the door swings open and House appears. He immediately moves past Wilson down the corridor into the living room.

“You’re wearing a turtle-neck,” Wilson remarks, pushing himself away from the wall. Something in his chest shifts. “And the nice jacket. Isn’t that the outfit that I said forever ago made you look nice-?”

“Shut up,” House bristles. That’s a yes, then. He grabs his cane, giving it a mindless twirl before grabbing his coat and keys. He looks over his shoulder at Wilson expectantly. “Coming?”

“Hang on.” 

He picks up his coat. House goes to open the door. Wilson stops him by the arm.

“House. I’m being serious. Sex doesn’t matter.”

“You have three ex wives who beg to differ,” he replies with lightning speed.

“OK. You’re right- sex complicates things. More than it has any right doing so. The having-it complicates. The not-having-it complicates it. Luckily, you and I have spent over a decade not having it, so I think we’re beyond that sort of thing. This- doesn’t have to be any different.”

House stares at him. He’s searching for something in Wilson’s expression. He doesn’t believe him. 

“Wait. This isn’t just about sex, is it?” Wilson realises. 

House turns away with an infuriated growl, drops his coat on the back of the sofa. “Great. Yeah, let’s talk more.”

“You think I’m lying. Don’t you?”

House leans against the sofa, drops his cane, looks at his watch. “We should go to the hospital separately, anyway. You go first, I’ll catch up-”

“That self-loathing part of your brain is _so_ huge, you won’t let yourself believe that someone genuinely cares about you. After all this time.”

House keeps staring at his watch. Then he looks up at Wilson with raised eyebrows. “Oh- sorry, are you done? I stopped listening to you about a minute ago.”

Wilson shrugs on his coat. Watches House, who begins to pace to the other side of the sofa, finding something to do to make it look as if he isn’t paying Wilson any attention. He ends up taking his phone from his pocket, putting his legs on the table, and playing Snake. If this is House’s issue- and if he’s going to be his typical stubborn self- then there’s only one thing for it. 

Mess with him.

“Remember when I lived with you and you made my life a living hell, ‘cause you thought you were teaching me a lesson?”

House doesn’t respond. The sound of the buttons on his phone beeps tunelessly. 

“Well, I… think it’s about time for karma to teach _you_ a lesson.”

House snorts. “Karma, huh? You know, I think I remember her- did I forget to call her back? Wait, no, of course- she’s the hooker from a couple of months ago-”

Wilson goes to open the door. One hand on the doorknob, he looks over his shoulder. “ _Oh_ , believe me, House, karma’s gonna make you its bitch. And by karma, I mean me. I’m gonna make you my bitch.”

That makes House pause. He turns slowly to look over the back of the sofa. “Sorry- I need clarification. Who’s the bitch of whom?”

Wilson doesn’t reply. No, far more sadistic to leave it there. So he gives House a vague, knowing smile, and closes the door. 

Ho-ho-ho. He has no idea what’s coming.

000

Work is no different than usual. Which feels weird, considering that everything else in his life has shifted cataclysmically. It doesn’t feel right that the world should carry on like normal. But it does, as is the nature of things; the Mean Girls burst into his office for his medical expertise; he sees a couple of patients, gives some good news, some bad news; he works his clinic hours; he isn’t harassed by House all morning. 

It’s sunny today, but it’s also raining. The kind of weather that means a rainbow should be appearing any time soon. His window is streaked with rain drops, dribbling down like roads on an ordinance survey map; they shine almost supernaturally. 

The door bursts open. He receives a face-full of rose petals. 

“You sent me four-hundred roses,” House accuses. “To my office.”

“I thought it might melt your frozen heart,” Wilson replies coolly, trying _so_ hard not to laugh as he sweeps away the rose petals from his desk of x-rays.

“Luckily for you, my team think it’s some stalker, secret admirer.”

“You must get hundreds of those- you _have_ always been famous for your bedside-manner.”

House is already leaving, shouting over his shoulder halfway down the corridor- “You started this with the wrong guy, amigo.”

The door has been left ajar. Wilson stands up, petals falling out of his lap onto the floor. He can’t help but feel smug as he goes to close the door. 

And so, it begins.

000

Board meetings are always dull and slow, but this one is particularly mind-numbing. Cuddy is being her usual pragmatic, brilliant self, managing to keep her eyes open through some miracle. Wilson has known her long enough to recognise when she’s trying to hide her irritation with the room full of border-line morons; it usually brings him some amusement. Currently, however, Wilson is more preoccupied with other things. 

House is one of the most fucked-up people he’s ever met, he considers, as he stirs his bitter coffee absent-mindedly. The man has been through more than most- on the other hand, less than others. Rather than emerging from it all with the sort of martyr-complex that some people do, he’s gone down the route of snarling, abused dog found chained to a porch. Wilson’s found a few ways to trick him into trusting him. He’s very privileged to be one of those people that House has accepted into his life; but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally risk getting his hand bitten off. This game he’s started may well end with such a result. House is mean and he’s clever- but, wrap a pill with enough ham, and he’ll eat it. 

On second thoughts, the dog metaphor doesn’t work, Wilson internally remarks- because House would take any pill thrown at him, ham or not. 

“I was under the impression we couldn’t afford it,” Anderson says to the room. “We’ve been asking for a new MRI machine for a year, but suddenly a whole radiology wing is possible?”

“Not suddenly at all,” Cuddy replies. “We’ve been counting our pennies for some time. It makes financial sense to…”

Wilson nods where he’s meant to, picks up his coffee cup and lets the steam warm his lips. Maybe tonight, he could cook something nice for them. He could run home and grab some ingredients-

The doors open. Some people with surprisingly colourful outfits enter the room without announcement. 

Cuddy’s PA bursts in, out of breath. “Excuse me, you can’t interrupt this meeting- you aren’t allowed in here-”

Four men in pink and white pin-striped suits line up, taking position. And they sing a single word in harmony, one by one: _“Wilsoooonnnn.”_

Wilson chokes on his coffee, dribbling it down his shirt.

“An acapella group?” Dr Bukhari says with a doubtful smile.

“What’s going on here?” Cuddy demands.

Before anyone gets any sort of explanation, the barbershop quartet begin singing:

_You thought that you could win  
Through humiliation,  
But you should remember that  
This is a competition-_

_If you try to screw me over,  
You’ll be in a dead-end,  
Oh you’ve made a big mistake- _

_(yes, you’ve made a huge mistake!)_ One of them sings as an aside-

_You’ve made a big mistake  
‘Cause I’m a psycho-  
Psycho-  
Pscyho-  
Psycho boyfriend!_

The music ends abruptly with jazz hands, and the room goes quiet.

Wilson is dumbstruck. He’s staring at the blindingly pink barbershop quartet, aghast. Everyone else at the board meeting staring at _him._

“I’m gonna kill him,” he mutters.

The leader of the quartet steps forward and looks around the room. “Is there a Dr Wilson?”

“Oh God, it’s not over-”

Everyone points at him. Even Cuddy, who seems as if she’s enjoying this too much. 

“Et tu, Brute?” Wilson asks her, and she shrugs, completely free of any remorse. He then looks up at the perfectly nice man who just serenaded him and ruined his dignity. “Yes, unfortunately, that is me.”

The singer dons his straw hat from across the meeting room table. Wilson nods awkwardly. The board team are snickering like school kids. And he is presented with a cupcake with pink frosting.

Wilson stares at it. Picks it up gingerly. It has the words ‘Luv House’ iced on top. 

“I’m gonna kill him,” he says once more. 

“It’s, er, complimentary with every song,” the quartet member says. “You’re not allergic to nuts-?”

“No, no, it looks delicious, thank you very much,” he says in as much of a ‘goodbye, please never return’ tone of voice as possible.

The quartet file out with big smiles. They must be used to singing parody songs all the time. Wilson, however, is not used to receiving them.

He looks at the cupcake. The room full of senior doctors is eerily quiet. 

“So, you and House have come up with some fresh torture for each other, I see?” Cuddy asks. 

Wilson looks at her. Looks back down at the cupcake- ‘Luv House’. Then back at the amused face of his colleague. _Oh_ , he realises. _She doesn’t realise. She thinks it’s just a joke. Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she?_

“Yep.” This is good. Their relationship- if they have one, that is- is still under wraps. They could probably do anything, bar making out in the middle of the hospital, and everyone would think they’re simply pranking each other. “This time, I started it though. Brought it on myself.”

“Well, it brightened up the boardroom, at least,” Anderson admits.

Yes. And it just gave Wilson another excellent idea.

000

He pushes open the glass doors to House’s office with a folder of stats in his hands. 

“New patient for you, House. Seven year-old female, Caucasian, had a stroke last night.”

When he looks up, he thought he knew what he was expecting. He bursts out laughing, because holy fuck, that was not what he was expecting. 

The Mean Girls are sat at the table, smothering laughs. House is making a cup of coffee, ignoring the six-foot teddy bear that’s looming threateningly over the whiteboard. It’s holding a heart that’s embroidered with the words I WUV YOU.

Wilson can’t breathe. He genuinely can’t breathe- he’s bent over, trying to catch his breath. 

“It’s so huge,” he wheezes.

“Three men had to carry it in,” Foreman says with delight. 

“I think it’s kinda cute,” Chase shrugs. 

Cameron and Foreman give their colleague a judgemental look up and down. 

Meanwhile, House is stirring his coffee, teaspoon clattering against his mug. He extends a hand. “Gimme the file.”

“What? No… thank you? No acknowledgement of the gift I spent two hundred dollars on?”

“Expensive prank,” Foreman says. The way he’s looking at Wilson, one eyebrow raised, makes feel horribly seen. 

Reminding himself that Foreman isn’t omniscient and couldn’t possibly know what he’s thinking, Wilson hands over the file. House snatches it. Gives him a look, which he imagines means he’ll be getting shouted at later on when the kids aren’t present. 

“Oh, and um- I think if you press the heart, it’s meant to sing,” Wilson explains innocently. 

“Thank you for the case, you may leave now.” House waves his arm in a mock curtsey. 

Wilson does what he’s told. This is way too fun. He calls over his shoulder as he’s leaving-

“Er- and, by the way. Thanks for the song. It was…” Wilson tries to find the most patronising word possible. “…cute.”

If House glares any harder at the back of his head, he’s certain his hair will set on fire. Oh, man, he’s in for it now. 

000

He tries to find House at lunchtime, but he’s nowhere to be found. 

It is highly unusual for House to be missing for so long. At this time of day, he’s normally in his office. The other twenty percent of the time, he’s following Wilson and begging for lunch. There was one time he was actually _with_ a patient, but that was just one time. A fluke. 

Wilson opens the door to coma-guy’s room. No House.

He checks his office again. No House.

This unsettles Wilson greatly. It makes him roll up the sleeves of the shirt compulsively as he waits in the lunch queue, looking around the room every now and then as if House might somehow burst out of a cupboard. Pop out of a cake like a stripper. The guy basically never visits the cafeteria without Wilson, his human-wallet, so he’s got to be somewhere else. Home, maybe. 

Wilson pays. He buys a packet of crisps, even though he doesn’t want them; there’s a small part of him that wants to feed House, even though he isn’t here. Yet. 

It’s with some suspicion and apprehension that Wilson sits down at a free table, eyes scanning the room. He doesn’t even look at his food as he starts to eat- stabs his fork into his quinoa salad and eats it blindly, getting food down his shirt. The way he’s examining his environment, like an antelope in the savanna- it probably makes _him_ look suspicious. And yet there is no way he’ll let his guard down. He can practically smell the practical joke in the air; a tension so thick and cold it’s like ice-cream. The calm before the storm. 

The Mean Girls. They’re sat on a table sulking, not talking to each other. Wilson doesn’t particularly care as to why, at the moment. They have hundreds of reasons to argue with each other on a daily basis, from stealing each other’s academic paper ideas to finishing the last of the milk and not replacing it. Wilson risks it- he leaves his lunch, goes to their table. 

“Hi.”

The three of them look up at him with some surprise.

“Hey, Wilson,” Chase says amicably. 

“You guys seen House?”

“I imagine he’s gone to find a large, open space to burn that gift you sent him,” Foreman says before taking a bite-full of salad. 

Cameron frowns to herself, unscrewing a bottle of water. “I… haven’t seen him for an hour or so, actually.”

They all fall into an unsettled quiet. 

“That cannot be good,” Wilson remarks.

“What is this thing that you guys have got going on, by the way?” Chase asks. Wilson doesn’t like the smug expression that’s growing second by second. “Not that you don’t usually act like children, but what’s got you going this time?”

Wilson isn’t sure how to respond. He flounders. “Well. It’s sort of-”

“They’re screwing each other!” Foreman exclaims as if it’s obvious. As if he’s just figured out the culprit in a game of Cluedo.

The three of them stare, looking unsurprised but as if they’d like a proper answer.

“That is… not true,” Wilson says. It isn’t a lie. They haven’t slept together, after all.

“OK. So you _want_ to screw each other,” Foreman amends.

“That isn’t-”

Wilson stops. It isn’t because he hasn’t got an answer prepared, because he actually has. The thing that stops him is the sound of music. Distant at first- and then growing. The volume increasing. It’s his favourite song- or one of them, anyway- ‘You Can Call Me Al’. He loves this song. However, because the sound is approaching with terrifying certainty, and because he knows it’s obviously House playing it, it feels somehow even more threatening than the _Jaws_ theme tune. 

He closes his eyes and hangs his head. “Oh God.”

“Can I hear music?” Chase asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s Paul Simon, if I’m not mistaken…”

“That’s _House_. With a speaker system. Playing Paul Simon.”

“Oh, yeah, there he is-”

Wilson barely has the energy to turn around and look. He’s shielding his forehead with his hand. The embarrassment is monumental already, and he hasn’t even seen House yet. He just knows, in his heart, that this is going to be mortifying. 

Eventually, he turns around slowly, with the acceptance of a man who knows he is about to walk into Hell. 

At first, he doesn’t see him for all the people crowded by the door; they’re trying to look for the source of the music. But then- oh yes, then he sees House, shimmying with surprisingly good rhythm into the canteen. He’s got a boombox. An actual boombox, like it’s 1985 and he’s in a John Hughes movie. He’s wearing a long trench-coat- where the hell did he find that, Goodwill?- and sneakers and sunglasses. People part like the red sea, smiling and clapping to the music, and Wilson is vaguely aware of Chase laughing hysterically, but only vaguely. House is scanning the room theatrically, a hand over his eyes like a visor. The moment he spots Wilson, he points at him. 

And everyone stares. 

The level of awkwardness he feels is staggering. Heat in his cheeks that he didn’t think real life humans experienced, only characters from trashy chick-lit. House is- oh good Lord- he’s making his way over to him, Paul Simon echoing in the room, thoroughly enjoying himself. Because House has never embarrassed himself in his entire life. Sure, Wilson embarrasses him, but he is a man of zero shame when it comes to his _own_ actions. Wilson, meanwhile: if this were a movie, he wouldn’t be able to watch from the second-hand embarrassment. As it is, this is _first_ -hand embarrassment, so, without being too dramatic, he wants to die. 

And yet, he’s smiling. A defence mechanism, he’s sure. 

Wilson stands his ground, hands in his trouser pockets and a burning face. House drops the boombox on the nearest table. Then, with some effort, stands on said table. 

“Fucking…” Wilson hides his face behind his hands. 

“I know we argue,” House announces on his podium- loud enough that the whole room can hear, even over the music- “and I know we’ve said cruel things to each other, but Wilson- _babe_.”

Foreman is choking somewhere behind him. Wilson isn’t looking, he can’t without spontaneously combusting. He’s going to stay here behind his hands, thanks very much.

“I hope we can make this work,” House says saccharinely. 

Wilson sighs. Everyone’s clapping and cheering at House's hilarious joke, and Wilson can only assume that he's still on the table. It does, at least, sound like he’s finished. He peels his hands from his face. He is, indeed, still standing on the table. 

“Get down from there, you lunatic.”

House is grinning. A genuine smile if he ever saw one. Nobody helps to get him down, perhaps because they know he deserves it. Cameron has been holding onto his cane, though- she throws it back to him, and he catches it, giving her finger-guns as a thanks.

“You know it sort of defeats the point of it being totally awful when you chose my favourite song,” Wilson says with a surprising calm, just for them to hear. Everyone is still staring, but his face is cooling down, at least. “You’ve accidentally done something nice.”

“So,” House poses. “Like my grand gesture?”

“No.”

He gives him one last smug, pursed-lipped smile, before sauntering out. Leaving the boombox, irritatingly. Perhaps because he’s wanting to leave Wilson with the image of him punching the air, à la John Bender from ‘Breakfast Club’. 

Wilson is surrounded by applause and laughter. He realises, then, that it’s time for the big-guns. 

000

He still has House’s spare key. So, he lets himself in and starts cooking. 

The kitchen smells like mushrooms and garlic. He’s playing one of House’s CDs as he cooks, wearing an apron he dug out of a cupboard. Despite the fact that House never cooks, he has some very nice kitchenware; when it isn’t covered in peanut butter. He’s found a Le Creuset casserole dish, the bottom of which is browned with garlic and olive oil and sage. The oven lets out wafts of warm air against his legs as it cooks the potatoes. It’s been a while since he’s cooked properly; Julie was always a little territorial of the kitchen. He’s never going to have that problem with House, at least. 

Wilson hums tunelessly to himself- House has a far better voice than him- and he scrapes the bottom of the pan to stop it from burning. He adds in some chicken thighs, and it sizzles loudly. The window is open. He looks at the street as he washes his hands; people are walking home from work, and the lamps have just come on. Since House’s apartment is at street-level, it’s more difficult to watch the world go by without being caught staring and looking creepy, so Wilson watches himself wash his hands instead. He opens the window a bit to let out the heat, loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.

The door slams. 

“Honey, I’m home!”

Wilson smiles to himself. It’s sarcastic as hell, of course, but it’s also kind of nice. If he imagines that House is being even remotely serious.

“Hey,” he calls, carrying on cooking. If he pretends that this isn’t a big deal, then maybe House won’t mock him for cooking for him like a ‘50s house-wife. 

“What’re you making?”

Wilson indulges in the triumph he feels; he was right when he thought that the way to House’s heart was through his stomach. “Chicken casserole.”

“Are you playing… God, is that Bruce Springsteen?”

“Your CD,” Wilson shrugs. 

“Yeah, that you bought me as a joke present years ago.”

Wilson pauses, crème fraiche in one hand and wooden spoon in the other. He turns and surveys House. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

He shrugs. “I guess the weight of the subsequent, more horrifying jokes have blocked it from your memory. Prisoners in Death Row work similarly.”

Wilson points an accusatory spoon at him. “You have _no_ room to talk. You serenaded me. Twice.”

“ _I_ only serenaded you once. The nice men at Princeton University Acapella Club serenaded you, too.”

House is pulling off his scarf, hanging it up with his coat. It leaves him in the turtleneck that they’re both pretending doesn’t make him look amazing. Wilson ignores the nervous tingling in his chest and stomach and extremities.

“I got your last ‘gift’,” House remarks wryly. 

He’s pouring in the cream and stirring it in. Pretending he’s only half-listening. “Uh-huh.”

Neither of them says anything. Wilson stirs. House putters around the living room. It feels like they’ve been living together for years. Eventually, giving up on the façade, Wilson turns down the heat on the pot and puts on the lid- turns around and leans against the kitchen counter. House is looking at him. God, he’s looking at him in a way he’s never seen before. Wilson isn’t even sure there are words to describe it. It’s affectionate- unreservedly. If it were anyone but House, they’d be saying: _‘you shouldn’t have’._

“And?” Wilson asks, folding his arms. House quirks the corner of his mouth. Wilson wants to kiss him. Desperately. “Don’t keep me on the edge of my seat.”

House removes the envelope from his jacket pocket. He opens it, where Wilson had enclosed two monster truck rally tickets and a note saying: _I couldn’t handle Cameron going with you last time._ He holds the tickets between his fingers, waves them. “You should have just come last time.”

“This’ll work too, though, right?” Wilson asks innocently. 

The way House is looking at him now is anything but innocent. His face is hot- and it has nothing to do with embarrassment or the warmth of the kitchen. 

Then, House chucks the envelope and tickets onto the coffee table- fishes out something else from his inside pocket. A sheet of paper. He leans against the arm of the sofa, folds it into an aeroplane- throws it in Wilson’s direction with irritatingly good aim. He dives to catch it. 

In the background, House has put on the TV. There’s the sound of him throwing his jacket somewhere. Wilson, meanwhile, is staring at the sheet of paper he’s unfolded, trying to figure out what it is. 

“Wait,” he says. Looks up at House, who’s standing with the remote in his hand in the threshold of the kitchen. Looking away. “Is this a reservation for-?”

“The hideously overpriced Japanese restaurant you wanted to try?” He supplies, flicking through the channels as he leans on his cane. “ _Hai, mochirondesu_.”

“OK, I’m gonna assume that means yes.”

“God, didn’t your mother ever teach you Japanese?”

Wow. He can’t believe this. His plan worked. He wants to victory dance. He thinks he might, but that would break the magical moment. Instead, he just grins, unashamedly as House ignores him. 

“OK,” he says after a long moment. House looks at him, a small frown. “You win. You are officially cheesier than me.”

House stares at him. Wilson lets it sink it.

Then-

“You manipulative asshole,” House accuses.

Wilson leans back against the counter, arms still folded, head tilted back. “Mwaha!”

“You turned this into a competition on purpose,” he realises. Looking both irritated and impressed. “You figured if we compete with the grand gestures, I’ll realise we’re both equal measures of foolish morons for each other.”

“And that maybe, with enough game-playing, I could trick you into accepting an actual nice gesture.” He takes a step towards House, who looks at Wilson and holds his ground. As if this is still a competition. “I know how this works. Words mean nothing to you, not until you see proof. I’m willing to give you all the proof you need. You just have to stop being a cagey douchebag about it.” 

House snorts. “You could be waiting for a long time.”

“I… don’t believe that. You are more of a romantic than you give yourself credit for. You _like_ romance.”

House looks affronted, but doesn’t argue. 

“You booked a reservation at a restaurant that has a six month wait, that I’ve been wanting to be to try for years.”

House exhales. 

“You say that everybody lies, but you don’t follow your own advice,” Wilson continues, more seriously. He puts his hands on House’s arms. “You throw yourself into a relationship with all you’ve got, because you truly want to believe that they’re on the same page. You’re the king of grand gestures.”

“You do realise who you’re speaking to, right?” 

“You moved in with Stacy after a week,” Wilson says without pause, “and five years later you pushed her away, vowing never to forgive her. You wear your heart on your sleeve. I intend to treat it more carefully than the people before me.”

House is staring at the floor. Wilson steps further into his space.

“Does that sound fair?” Wilson says quietly.

“It’s not the gestures that matter,” House mutters. Speaking properly, at last. “You’ve proposed three times. You could woo a hippopotamus if you wanted to.”

“I don’t, for the record.”

They linger there in the kitchen for a moment, Wilson’s hands on his arms. Sliding up to his shoulders. House’s eyes move from the floor, meet Wilson’s gaze- dazzlingly blue. Completely serious, for once. Unguarded.

“Are you sure about this,” House asks quietly. 

Wilson gathers his bravery- lets a hand find House’s cheek. It rests there. House leans into it with his eyes half-closed. It’s unbelievable. 

“I could bring a boombox tomorrow morning to work, if you feel I haven’t got my point across clearly enough.”

House huffs a laugh. “I think we’re good.”

“Good. To clarify, one last time- I am sure about this. You. Us. I’m sure about giving this a shot.”

House’s head is tilted downwards, leaning against Wilson’s hand. His eyes look up at him. It’s remarkably vulnerable. Then, he blinks, and the mischief has returned to his expression. 

“Fine. You have moved me,” he says in a mock, imperious tone.

Wilson steps closer till their noses almost touch. He feels House’s hands wind around his back, run down his spine so they sit somewhere in the centre; one stays there and pulls him in; another goes to run a thumb along his jaw. It makes him breathless; this level of intimacy was always impossible to imagine with House, and yet here he is, being caressed. His breath trickles out of him slowly. 

“I love you,” House admits.

Wilson breathes in shakily. It’s really as simple as that, then. “I love you, too, House.”

It’s soft and exploratory, like yesterday’s kiss- noses touching, eyes falling closed, lips grazing ticklishly. But it’s by no means as tentative; it’s deliberate, it’s purposefully, tantalisingly slow. It’s the sort of kiss that draws the moment out, drip feeds it rather than plunging you into it. It makes time feel completely meaningless, standing there with his hands running up House’s arms, down to his chest, one round the back of his neck pulling him in- House hums against his lips, and the shot of arousal that rockets through him from that simple noise is absurd. One of House’s hands in his hair, another moving down to the small of his back, pulling him closer- 

Wilson breaks from the kiss to breath in deeply, unevenly, his nose pressing into House’s cheek, both his hands in House’s hair now, feeling the sudden need for oxygen by the feel of House’s hands all over him, the realisation that the shameful fantasies he’s had since he met him are materialising this very second. And House takes the lack of kissing as an opportunity to run his lips down Wilson’s neck- holy shit, the feel of his stubble against his skin-

He tries to say House’s name, but he only gets as far as “H-”. He’s completely lost in it. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be amazed by what’s happening, he’s just gone. 

That’s why he doesn’t move or question it when House stops kissing his neck. His breath blossoms on his throat. “The potatoes are burning.”

Wilson’s dizzy. “Huh?”

“Potatoes. Gonna burn down our apartment.”

Wilson blinks his eyes open. He sees the plumes of smoke coming from the oven door. 

“ _Shit_ -”

He- reluctantly- dives out of House’s arms and opens the oven door. Smoke billows out, and he starts coughing, waving it uselessly out of his face. The fire alarm goes off. Mood: destroyed.

“If you noticed, why didn’t you do something?” Wilson demands.

“I was kinda hoping you’d say ‘fuck it’ and let the place burn down.”

He grabs the oven gloves, pulls out the potatoes. They’re surprisingly salvageable; probably because he accidentally put the grill on rather than the oven. If he scrapes off the top layer and puts them back in on the right setting-

“Yum. Charcoal.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wilson argues, turning the oven on and waving the smoke out of the window. He turns to look at House, who’s poking his cane against the smoke alarm button. “If you _will_ distract me with tender kisses against my neck.”

House winces against the alarm. “Fine, I won’t do it again.”

That’s not at _all_ what he wants, but Wilson is too preoccupied with waving the smoke out of the window. Finally, the alarm stops screaming. They both sigh with relief. 

Wilson looks at House. House laughs- a quiet, resigned laugh. 

“Sit down,” Wilson tells him. “I’ll… rescue what I can of this.”

House does. Wilson does- rescue dinner, that is. Half an hour later, they’re eating in front of TV like they always have. It’s not quite kisses down his neck, Wilson admits, but it’s still nice. It’s nice, because it’s them. 

They can tell each other they love each other and whisk each other off their feet as they like. But they’re always them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice how House called it 'our apartment'? Because neither of them did. Idiots, lol


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here come the smut! It's very sort of, erotic rather than explicit, in case people are concerned about it being too explicit for their tastes
> 
> If you're not into it, I'd say stop reading at 'it makes Wilson hold his breath in case he misses anything'.

All it took was getting shot. 

House lies on his back, a snoring Wilson sprawled half across him. Observing the pattern of his ceiling coving, he considers his life. His entire life. He does this every now and then, most notably when he’s been shot in the stomach and neck. 

It’s all very well being told by people that he’s ruining his life- that he’s self-destructive, that he hates himself, that he sabotages the things he loves. The problem is, he won’t listen to anyone other than himself and possibly, every now and again, Wilson. That’s why it took a hallucinatory coma for him to acknowledge that his entire personality whittles down to the fact that he enjoys depriving himself of anything meaningful or good. As for why he does that? Well, that’s probably down to a hell of a lot of stuff that happened when he was a kid. He’s certain people have come up with their own theories, shared them and spread them round the rumour mill. Some of them are probably true. 

He told Wilson all of it, one night years ago, when they’d had too much whisky. He sometimes wonders if he should have. That sort of knowledge about a friend can make you feel heavy; it can make you want to run.

Wilson isn’t running, he notes, as he peers down at Wilson’s head. It’s on his chest- something that’s already become a bit of a habit these past few nights that they’ve shared a bed together. One of the things that House remembers most clearly from that hazy dream-period after being shot is a conversation he had with ‘Wilson’. Or, rather, a conversation he had with himself, using Wilson’s persona as a method of making the bitter pill go down more sweetly. House’s mind, reasoning with itself. Something about how he has always ‘dismissed anything physical’, ‘anything that isn’t coldly, calculatingly intellectual’. Damn, subconscious-House is brutal. 

At the time, the ‘Wilson’ he had conjured blamed all of this on the pain in his leg- suggesting that House has learned to compartmentalise any physical thing as bad and painful. And, sure. His leg is probably the main reason, he hasn’t changed his mind about that. But he thinks that’s only one reason he can’t get off- why his brain cuts itself off from his body to the point he can’t feel anything. There are other, more painful reasons for it, too. After that coma, though, after working things out, after recognising how cruel he is to himself, he thought things might change. Especially with Wilson. 

_Aaah_. What’s a Saturday morning for except pondering the routes of one’s trauma?

House finds himself carding his fingers through Wilson’s thick hair. He smiles, blinks down at the view of his hand on his friend’s head. A couple of years ago, Wilson had let it grow long and ‘90s boy-band-esque. He looks older, now, with it shorter. 

He’s been harsh on him. He always is, so it sounds obvious, but recently he's been pushing him away from every angle he can. Except, pushing Wilson away has turned out to be a task of Sisyphean proportions. The bastard just keeps rolling right back. First with the peanut-butter-washing-up scenario, then with the embarrassing grand gestures. Now, with House giving him major blue-balls. 

House looks at the view: his body, chest downwards. His room, bleached with white, morning light. His clothes on the floor. Cane propped by his bedside table. And Wilson, a new addition, lying across him and snoring. Really, hideously loudly. He loves him, and if he leaves him because he can’t take a relationship without something physical- if he cheats- he doesn’t think he’d ever recover. No: he knows for a fact he wouldn’t. No matter how much he tries to rationalise it- that thing he does best- he’ll always berate himself, punish himself for all the _coulda, shoulda, woulda_ s. And Wilson won’t be there to pick up the pieces like before. So, House decided that he'd just have to push him away first. 

House started testing Wilson’s limits a couple of days ago. Research project: how severe a case of blue-balls can Wilson survive? 

The first test was making out with him, then stopping mid-way to go play the piano. The second, he thought he’d surprise Wilson by emerging from the shower in his towel, batting his proverbial eyelashes and announcing, ‘oh, honey, didn’t know you’d be home so early’. And it’s become a pattern to spoon Wilson in the morning, kissing his neck, and then leave him high-and-dry. It’s been three days of purposeful teasing, and yet the man is still here.

It was last night he realised these tests aren’t proving anything. Just- throwing salt in the wound. Just dangling the carrot where neither of them can reach. 

Well, House didn’t realise it entirely on his own-

_“You don’t need to keep doing this. I am staying. The sex doesn’t bother me- or lack thereof-”_

_“You’re only saying that because it’s the honeymoon phase. Once you realise how crappy it is being-”_

_“Honeymoon phase? House, please, do you even know what that means? At what point have we ever experienced anything as simple and light-hearted as a honeymoon phase? In the entire history of our friendship?”_

_“You’re sticking around because I’m broken and needy, not because-”_

_“Oh, yeah- I think I remember this one. Gimme a second… if I remember correctly, ‘I eat neediness’?”_

_“You eat neediness for breakfast. You wrap it up in a tortilla and turn it into burrito._

_“Thank you for adding some nutritional value to the metaphor.”_

_“You’re here for the novelty, because you’re as addicted to pain as I am, but once you realise you might have to wait forever to get your rocks off-”_

_“I don’t care! House! How many times do I need to tell you-?”_

“ _You’ll turn to someone else.”_

_“Who the hell would I turn to? And why would I want to? I’ve always come back to you.”_

Yes. That had ended that conversation quickly. 

Wilson still seems to be fast asleep. House turns to look at the alarm clock: eight am. Usually, he’d be knocked-out, too. For some reason, he woke up early, actually _wanting_ to be awake. Something he hasn’t experienced in a while. With some effort, he peels himself away from Wilson, shuffling carefully out from under his head and placing a pillow under him with lightning speed. Like Indiana Jones with a bag of sand trying to stop a boobytrap going off. The snoring stops. House freezes. And then the snoring continues. 

That’s going to be interesting. Sleeping through that. House can foresee a lot of petty arguments about nasal strips. 

The kitchen is clean and tidy after a delicious dinner which Wilson had, of course, cooked. House had helped to wash up, after the nice things Wilson said about him not cheating on him, etc. Seemed the least he could do. Now that Wilson’s still in bed, though, House doesn’t get to have his promised pancakes. Looks like he’s going to have to make said pancakes himself, like a pleb. And suddenly, Wilson sucks, all over again. 

“Worst boyfriend ever,” he mutters. 

Plain flour. Eggs. Milk? Probably. Recipe book… somewhere. 

House puts on some Randy Newman whilst he cooks- quietly, on the lowest setting. House is, fortunately, not a shoddy chef. He never learned as a kid, but he did learn a thing or two in uni just to prove to the doubters that he is, in fact, amazing at everything. The pancake mix is fine, and they’re cooking OK, but they’re not like Wilson’s. Whatever. 

“Holy shit,” he hears from the kitchen threshold. 

House smiles to himself. This should certainly get him some brownie points. “He has arisen,” he says in a mock preacher voice. 

“You’re _cooking._ "

He steps back from the cooker. “Nah, I just wanted to see what would happen if I pressed a few buttons on this big metal thingy.” 

He sees Wilson shuffling in now, bedhead and eyes wincing a little. A just-woken-up face that’s so cute it makes House want to punch a wall. A forty-something year old oncologist should not be cute. “It smells… good,” Wilson says with some suspicion.

House doesn’t reply, because he can’t think of anything sarcastic or mean enough. Instead, he busies himself with prying the pancake away from the pan, running a spatula along its edge. He tenses a little when Wilson comes up behind him, wraps his arms around his stomach and lays his chin on his shoulder. 

“Too much?” Wilson mutters, chin digging in.

House calculates his current feeling on the situation. Then, “Nope.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked so peaceful,” he replies, sickeningly saccharine. 

“I slept like the dead last night.”

“You _snore_ like someone dying.”

Wilson’s chin disappears from his shoulder as he throws his head back and laughs. His arms are still around House’s waist, and he’s alright with that. 

“Oh, God. Yeah. What ever will I do? You’ll never marry me, now.”

"It's fine, I'll just suffocate you or something."

House unsticks the pancake, drops it on the plate with the two others that look sort of shitty, now he’s comparing them to Wilson’s. Deciding he never wanted to be a chef anyway, he turns off the hob and turns around to face Wilson. 

He’s still not used to seeing him up close like this. Certainly not used to feeling his hands on his back, a leg propped between his. He’s more than willing to. 

“Hi,” Wilson says quietly. 

“Hey.”

He’s been in love before. He’s laid shoulder to shoulder with Stacy on his stomach in an attic trying to catch a rat, gazing into each other’s eyes. This is different. Maybe because he doesn’t need to catch Wilson. 

“I was gonna say ‘best boyfriend ever’,” Wilson says with a frown. “You know, ‘cause of the pancakes.”

“But you suddenly realised I’m the worst? Don’t worry, I packed your bag for you.”

“But ‘boyfriend’ makes us sound like sixth graders.”

“Well, ‘partners’ makes us sound like seventy-year-old lesbians who crotchet tea cosies.”

“Or. You know, criminals. Which is kinda cool.”

“Mom, dad, this is Wilson: _my partner in crime._ "

“Oh. God- no, that’s disgusting, burn that idea with immediately.”

“Special friend.”

“Ah, see- this is it,” Wilson decides. “It doesn’t actually _matter_ what we call each other, because even if we find something remotely acceptable, you’ll say it with so much sarcasm that no one will think you’re serious anyway.”

House thinks about this. “Side-bitch?”

Wilson smiles. House kisses it. 

Then, against House’s lips, “You gonna tell the kids about your new side-bitch?”

“You’re not _new_ ,” he mutters, eyes closed. “We’ve been each other’s side-bitches for years.”

House traces his lips along Wilson’s jaw. He has a bit of an obsession with it; it’s very square. There’s something nice about that. Natural selection is weird. Wilson leans closer into him. 

“That’s… actually pretty accurate,” Wilson agrees. Albeit a little breathlessly. House likes that he can do that. 

They kiss. They stand there a whilst longer before Wilson pushes away and tells House he’s hungry. ( _I don’t deserve him_ , House thinks.) They sit on the sofa in their pyjamas and watch crappy Saturday morning TV, shoulder to shoulder, eating pancakes. 

“This is nice,” Wilson says after a few minutes of rare peace. He looks at House a little nervously, as if waiting for House to tell him _no, it isn’t nice, I hate you, get out_. That’s when House realises that he needs to be doing this whole, making pancakes and giving a crap spiel a little more often. 

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, looking back. 

Wilson leans in for a kiss; he complies, happily. 

“These pancakes are God-awful, though,” Wilson adds. 

“They’re disgusting.”

And that, for some reason, is the funniest realisation that either of them have come to in a while. 

000

Of course, the peace doesn’t last for long. 

In the following days, there are arguments. Plenty of them. It wouldn’t be them if there weren’t. There are arguments about Wilson’s enormous shampoo consumption, about House’s compulsion to drive Wilson away, about Wilson staying over too much, about House not pulling his weight with the housework. About Wilson’s saviour-complex. About House’s addiction to conflict. Big or small, they have arguments. 

House doesn’t know what he’d do without them.

000

Days off are those strange things that he always looks forward to, and then when he gets to them, he finds himself completely miserable. If he isn’t working, if he isn’t obsessing over a case, then he’s festering at home in his pyjamas. Days off are fun in theory. In reality, they’re boring and depressing. 

This day off is different. Wilson gets up early and heads to work, loudly. He ‘sleeps’ defiantly through the whole thing, pretending to be unconscious when Wilson leaves a kiss on his head. And when Wilson leaves, he finds that he’s actually happy to have a bit of time to himself. He watches _The L Word_ and eats Nutella out of the jar, leaves the spoon unwashed in the sink. (Five minutes later, he gives up and goes to wash it.) He starts composing something new on the piano, goes for a drive on his motorcyle for a couple of hours the countryside. Then he comes back and keeps playing. 

The day goes quickly when he’s enjoying it. Usually, it passes by painfully slowly, ending with some pill-popping, Vicodin crushed and sprinkled in his whisky. 

The door opens and House continues to play, fingers mindlessly cascading over the piano keys and trilling. 

“Hey,” Wilson greets him wearily.

House nods his head in acknowledgement, not wanting to stop playing. He’s on a roll. He’s got Garageband recording it on his computer so he can write the composition later. And one would think that Wilson shutting the door loudly through irritation and pouring himself a drink in the kitchen, glasses clattering, would distract House. Or annoy him, for interrupting the recording. It doesn’t. For some reason, watching Wilson makes him play the piano even more naturally. 

He’s surprised by the tone that the music takes; he looks down at his hands and almost berates them for going off piste. This song was meant to be moody, but it’s ending on an uncharacteristically optimistic note. Romantic, almost.

Better stop playing there, before he gets ahead of himself. 

House presses stop on his computer recording. Then he watches Wilson loosen his tie- a habit that’s suddenly become a lot more attractive over the past couple of weeks- and collapse on the sofa. He crosses his legs over his ankles and rubs his temples. There’s no point in asking how his day was, because the answer is obvious. 

“Anderson is a _moron_ ,” Wilson eventually announces without prompting, an aggressive gesticulation with the free hand that isn’t massaging his forehead. 

"Sounds like you've only just realiseed,” House says, playing some casual notes with his right hand. 

“No, I haven't, I've always known, but- he’s a new _species_ of moron. There should be a nature documentary about the different levels of moron. With one episode, just, entirely dedicated to his particular branch of the moron, native to New Jersey.”

The Vicodin bottle in his right pocket feels heavy. And then, he does something insane. He ignores it, and keeps playing. 

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing! That’s the thing!” Wilson is waving both of his hands now. Lying down, exhausted, but also throwing his arms about in frustration. This is peak, pissed-off Wilson. “He doesn’t do shit! He sends his patients _my_ way, which is fine, because, you know, I’m a doctor and I’m there to _help_ people, except then he comes up to me and accuses me of nepotism, because apparently I’m ‘monopolising the oncology department’ and taking all his patients- which- he seems to have just, _forgotten_ he sent to me because he’s too dumb to help them!”

House considers this, leans into right hand as it plays. He huffs a laugh. “The man’s a genius.”

Wilson gapes at him, speechless. He makes up for lack of words with hands. “Please! Elaborate!”

“He’s fobbing off his work onto you,” he explains like it’s obvious, which it is, “and making _you_ seem like a jackass for it. He’s painting you out to be a try-hard hero, stealing all the big cases, the kind of doctor who does it for kudos rather than because you care-”

“I do care!” Wilson cries.

“You don’t need to remind me. You stink of ‘caring’. I could follow your scent of caring into the wilderness and find you. It’s hideous.”

“Yes, I’m a monster.”

“The guy is trying to paint you as me. The show-off with a God complex. Meanwhile, he makes it out that he does all the ‘honest’ work. Minimal effort. He gets to avoid all those cases that make his _widdle bwain huwt._ Added bonus, making you look bad makes him feel a bit better about the fact that he got his medical degree from the asshole of nowhere.”

His eyes widen, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment. Tie undone, arms splayed out. “I’m his scapegoat.” 

"Like I said. Genius."

A sigh. Then, “I hate everything.”

It comes to House very suddenly. “Let’s go on a date.”

Wilson doesn’t respond immediately. He tilts his head so he can view House, giving him a double chin. “What?”

“Oh. Come on, now, Mr Grouchy.”

“I-” Wilson shakes his head and blinks, like he’s losing his mind. “Not to be obtuse, but it sounds a lot like you just asked me out on a date.”

“Those are _almost_ the exact words I used.”

Wilson blinks at him again. Sits up and props himself on his elbows. “Er- I- when?” he stumbles.

“Tonight.” House purses his lips and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Wilson looks like he’s been hit over the head. “If that works for you. If not, that’s cool.”

“Where?”

He purses his lips even further, frowns. “You’re a fan of the monosyllables, suddenly.”

“And you’re asking me on an actual date, suddenly,” Wilson replies, suspicion in his eyes. 

The top notes of the song he’s playing sing- it’s a song he knows, but he can’t remember where he knows it _from_. “Who knows. Might cheer you up.”

The tension in Wilson’s shoulders loosens, the suspicion melts away, and gives way for something else. A loose, slack expression that might be surprise. It’s a beautiful expression. House likes that he can do that to Wilson: make him soft when he’s feeling sharp. Everyone- including them- has always said that Wilson is the nice one, but they both know he can be just as biting. 

“What should I wear?” Wilson asks eventually. 

000000

It was the first thing that came to mind. He didn’t want to go anywhere fancy- that would just feel forced. Like a date-date, as opposed to a date that _they_ would go on. Then again, a carnival is still pretty corny. 

“Well. This is corny,” Wilson affirms his suspicion, despite sounding absolutely delighted by it. 

“You like corny.”

“No- _you_ like corny.”

House shoves him. 

Wilson stumbles, stares at him. “Really?” he laughs. “How old are we?”

The ground is hard and frozen beneath their feet, and their breaths are misty. The entrance to the carnival is quiet; thankfully, not many people think to go to a carnival at 6pm on a Wednesday. The view through the archway is colourful, even though the sky is dark. There’s a shitty little ferris wheel and creepy fairground music, strings of lights down the makeshift walkways. Other couples. 

Eurgh, God. This was a crappy idea. He hates himself for thinking of it. 

“So. What’s the plan?” Wilson begins, hands in his coat pocket. It’s unbuttoned, showing the logo of his McGill sweatshirt. “I win you a stuffed teddy bear? You fall into my arms?”

Was that the plan? He really doesn’t know. Unfortunately, it isn’t in Wilson to stop teasing when there’s an opportunity to rip House to shreds. 

“It’s corny,” House admits quietly.

Wilson bumps his arm into his. “You were right. I like corny. Besides, we’ve come here every year.”

Ah, that was it- that was the reason he brought them here. Something normal, but also possibly date-y. Thing is, now that he is here, walking past adolescent couples and queues for The Love Tunnel, he’s suddenly wondering how on earth he’d spent all those times coming here with Wilson _not_ feeling like it was a date. The reason they came back to the carnival every year was because it was fun playing chicken with the amusement park rides. House has always managed to coax Wilson onto a ride that he absolutely does not want to get on- resulting in Wilson swearing in front of hundreds of children whilst House has a blast. It often means that Wilson doesn’t talk to him for an hour, and they have to wait for a while before they can get any candyfloss so he doesn’t throw up everywhere. It’s one of his mean games that he plays with Wilson, and it’s only now that he’s realising that he was probably flirting all along, in the same way that an elementary school kid pulls on another kid’s hair. 

There aren’t many people inside. Some of the rides are still, waiting for more people to queue up and join. The carnies are sitting behind their stalls on their phones, or shouting to each other over people’s heads. Looking up, the sky is dark and cloudy- or maybe he just can’t see the stars because of the string lights overhead. The air smells like butter-popcorn. And he listens to Wilson bitch about work; he’s good at listening, when he wants to. Wilson looks relaxed. Arms swinging gently by his sides, his pace slow and ambling. He hasn’t seen him look this content in a while. A long while. 

And then, House is temporarily distracted by the BB Guns. Or, rather, the twenty-something year old dude-bro trying to shoot the row of cans and win a stuffed toy for the very disinterested girl he’s with. She’s a nine out of ten. He’s a seven, maybe an eight if he’s as rich as he looks. Wilson stops somewhere ahead, turns to follow House’s line of sight. 

“Wanna watch me shoot some stuff?” House asks.

“Of course. I would never stop you from needlessly asserting your masculinity to humiliate a university student.”

“Great,” House replies, and approaches the stall. 

Dude-Bro fails to knock any of the cans off the shelf. The carnie picks his teeth, watching the scenario unfold with a dull expression. Dude-Bro attempts to recover some of his swagger- throwing self-conscious smirks at the girl, who’s examining her nails and looking bored out of her mind. 

“It’s easier to shoot with a real gun, you know?” he says to her. 

She widens her eyes and purses her lips. Wilson hovers at the edge, arms folded and watching with amusement. House leans against the front of the stand. 

“Tch, yah,” House replies, when the girl doesn’t. “Too true, man.”

Dude-Bro smiles at him awkwardly. He goes to put down the gun- House takes it from him. 

“May I?” he asks sweetly.

Dude-Bro shrugs. “If you want, man. Shit’s rigged, though.”

The carnie is unmoved by this accusation. House grimaces in mock-concern. “Oh, dear. Well, I’ll just have to do my best, then.”

When he lines up and shoots every single one of them off the shelf, it fills him with a very simple satisfaction. Putting down the gun, though, he sees Dude-Bro has left with the girl. Damn. The carnie, however, tilts his head, mildly impressed. Wilson sidles up to him. 

“Man strong,” he says in a gruff, caveman voice. “Man shoot things. Man good.”

Wilson’s right- it’s a very primitive kind of posturing, but he’s certainly not above that. “I have successfully won his affections,” he announces imperiously, addressing the carnie. “He may choose his prize.”

Wilson gives him absolute shit for that, as well, of course- which was House’s plan all along. Provide Wilson with fodder for teasing, and he’ll be happy. Or at least, House hopes so. 

That’s the thing that worries him most. House knows that Wilson loves him. Now, he knows that he’s staying. He knows that he cares, unconditionally. He’s proven it time and time again. But that doesn’t mean that Wilson is _happy_ ; that doesn’t mean that isn’t doing this through some perverse sense of obligation. 

“Are you happy?”

Wilson looks ahead, a small frown on his face at hearing House’s question. Lit up in carnival lights. He’s pocketed his chosen prize, a yo-yo. “What, like. Right now? Or generally? I’m having fun right now, if that’s what you mean.”

House doesn’t reply, because it’s obvious what he means. Wilson looks ahead, distantly.

“You ever had the ice-cream sundae at IHOP before?”

Ah. He feels a metaphor coming on. “You get ice-cream at IHOP? Not pancakes? Cretin.”

“Just- bear with me. You get an ice-cream sundae, maybe you get to choose the flavours- I might ask for, I dunno- chocolate, vanilla, butterscotch, and whipped cream. Right?”

“Right. This is fascinating, please, continue.”

“So, the waiter comes back and says they don’t have any butterscotch left.”

House sees where this is going. He rolls his eyes, but Wilson continues.

“The thing is- sure, I like butterscotch. Love it. But I didn’t get the sundae for the butterscotch, otherwise I would have just got a bowl of butterscotch ice-cream. I wanted the sundae because I love sundaes. That particular sundae. And just because IHOP hasn’t got any butterscotch, doesn’t mean I’m going to storm out and find some other… desert parlour. Or scrawl filth about butterscotch all over the town in graffiti.”

“We are still talking about ice-cream, right?”

Wilson gives him a look. There’s the sound of people screaming on the nearest amusement park ride. Everything is dark but lit up, and Wilson looks so normal and natural and relaxed and _himself_ amongst it all that it gives House that feeling. That weird-but-nice achy feeling where his heart should be. 

“I came for the sundae,” Wilson explains decidedly. “Not the butterscotch. I love the sundae. The sundae makes me, against all odds, very warm and fuzzy.”

House sighs. “From experience, IHOP’ll probably restock in butterscotch. I just don’t know when.” He pauses. Wilson nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Just to clarify, am I the sundae or the IHOP in this scenario?”

Wilson smirks. “I was never as good at metaphors as you.”

“Let’s go with sundae. Because I’m delightful and sweet. Or because I’m cold and give you brain freeze?”

Wilson doesn’t reply. The air is cool, and it stings his cheeks. It’s somehow pleasant. 

“Sundae might be better with butterscotch,” he says after a while. 

Wilson sighs, tilts his head from side to side. “I give up. This metaphor clearly sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. Leave them to me.”

They spend a little while just walking around. House bullies Wilson into doing a few carnival games so he can laugh at him. For whatever reason, Wilson is allergic to winning anything at a carnival, and it always provides great entertainment to watch him fail at coconut throws or strongman bells. It’s very likely that Wilson only does this for House’s amusement rather than his own, and he’s OK with that. This year, however, Wilson refuses to go on any rides, which is a shame. It’s always hilarious to hear him spew rivers of curse-words, eyes screwed shut. 

By the time they’ve done the rounds, hunger starts to set in. Since they both agree that they’d rather not have their dinner with a side of food poisoning, they pass the hot-dog stands and, miraculously, agree on somewhere to eat without argument. A pizza place, just around the corner from House’s flat. Wilson does, however, demand that he get a toffee apple first. 

“Those things are disgusting,” House remarks as Wilson struggles to get a bite. The apple keeps eluding him. 

“Oh, like you can talk.” He manages to get a bite. Tongue darting across his lips. “You eat crap every single day. I always eat healthily, I can indulge in a little trash every now and then.”

“Then unhealthiness isn’t the issue, it’s the fact that they taste disgusting.”

“Lucky for you, you don’t need to have any.” He takes another bite. House stares at his mouth. When did eating a toffee apple become so obscene? “It’s mine.”

They don’t say much as they head towards the exit. House feels that he doesn’t have much that he wants to say. He just wants to watch Wilson being content and eating his disgusting apple and pretending that he isn’t watching. Pretend that he isn’t watching the way his hair looks surprisingly auburn under these lights. He’s already been too much of a sap for one night- he needs to be covert in giving Wilson the googly eyes. 

Wilson throws the toffee apple stick into the bin. He zips up his coat, sticks his hands in his pockets and makes a _brrrr_ sound. 

“Hey,” House says.

“Yeah?”

House stops, leans over to kiss him. It takes Wilson by surprise- he knows, because he feels the gentle _mmph_ against his lips. Wilson tastes like toffee apple, and in this case, it’s nice. And because House is greedy, he tastes as much as he can; he feels Wilson’s hands hanging onto the lapel of his coat. He’s cold all over, but this kiss is warm. 

He pulls away. Looks over at Wilson, who’s red-cheeked from the cold, breathing through parted lips. Looking back at House in the way one might if they’d just received a letter from someone they haven’t heard from in a long time, but have been missing sorely. Relief and joy and something a little bit painful. 

“OK,” Wilson says, tone confused but pleased.

“Yup.”

With that, House keeps on walking. It takes a moment for Wilson to catch up. That makes him smile to himself. If he can surprise Wilson every now and then- the nice kind of surprises, not just the horrible ones- then things might be OK. 

The wind picks up a little. They take House’s bike, Wilson’s arms around his waist, and they ride down the quiet streets. House overtakes any traffic, and the lights streak past like lines of paint. House has driven Wilson about plenty of times, so the feeling of him behind him, hands against his stomach, isn’t a novelty. It is nice, though. Most things are when they’re with him. 

They park outside the flat and walk to the pizza place. It’s a tiny place that they discovered last year but haven’t been to since. The pizza isn’t authentic or necessarily good, but it is satisfying, and the portions are always big. The windows are steamed up from the inside and there’s only a couple of other people in there, locals, speaking Italian. House picks up bits and pieces of what they’re saying, but doesn’t pay much conscious attention. He listens instead to Wilson talking about some programme he watched last night, and House attempts to persuade him, in vain, to watch the OC- just so he can have someone else to talk to about it. They share a giant margherita pizza and a couple of beers. Wilson leaning against the tiled wall, arm slung along the back of the metal diner chair, smiling naturally. Licking tomato sauce off the palm of his hand. 

For some reason, it’s this intimate but normal scenario that makes House think back. Everything they’ve been until now. All the moments he can’t remember, that meant nothing at the time but cumulatively, mean everything, now. It evokes a sort of certainty that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

The apartment is warm. House doesn’t ask if Wilson’s staying over, he assumes he will- selfishly, but not wrongly. They both step inside, pulling off scarfs and hanging up coats. 

“Night’s still young,” Wilson says with an exhale. Looking at House with some expectancy.

Now. _Now_.

House has always had this. He’s always had those moments where everything condenses and clarifies, like layers of sand being pressed and heated into glass. Moments where the universe comes together, when he’s finally figured out the problem, and his stomach drops, and his mind and body scream _eureka_. 

This is one of them.

It’s two short steps towards Wilson, and then he’s kissing him- both hands on his face, decided, urgent, hungry. And it’s obvious what he means by it, because Wilson moans into his mouth.

“H-” 

He doesn’t give Wilson the chance to finish saying his name. He’s kissing the words out of his mouth. He’s pinning him against the door and pressing himself against his body. And Wilson is grabbing at his clothes and running his hands along his chest, being so careful not to take anything off- but House isn’t interested in being good, and he doesn’t want Wilson holding back, not now, so he screws up his courage and ignores the voice in his head saying _stop before you get hurt_ \- he slides his hands under Wilson’s sweatshirt and t-shirt and feels the warmth of his skin, his stomach and the curve of his back-

“House-” Wilson manages to say with irritating clarity. House pushes him harder against the door until it rattles, bites at Wilson’s neck vindictively. Wilson gasps, clutches at House’s back. “I was gonna ask if you’re sure you wanna do this, but-”

“If I wanted this to stop, I’d make it stop,” he mumbles against the crook of his neck. “Stop worrying about me and _kiss back_.”

And then, suddenly, Wilson isn’t good or careful. Instead, Wilson-the-emotional-vampire bites back, at last. The kisses turn rough and mischievous, all lip biting and low rumblings in his chest- and it makes total sense because Wilson has always been a bastard at heart, with a dark sense of humour- never pandering and never altering himself for House’s benefit- but it still gives House that swooping sense of victory, deep in his stomach and further down, anatomically speaking. The tight grip of Wilsons hands on his arms, almost too painful. Fingers fumbling for buttons and zips. Rasping stubble. 

The bedroom feels forever away, but they make it there. They _have_ to make it there. Because House is afraid that, if he wastes too much time taking off their clothes in his living room, he might jinx this thing and the moment might disappear. 

000000

It had been just as desperate and vindictive as Wilson had sort of hoped it might be. It had essentially turned into a competition of who could give the best blow job. It was agreed that they tied- more research required in the area. 

And then, as if they hadn’t just blown each other’s brains out, they sat in the living room and watched cartoons for a while with beers. Wilson wasn’t sure what time it was and he didn’t care much either. He was happy sitting on House’s sofa in his pants and sweatshirt, watching TV and gently bullying him. House’s hair left wet after his shower, sticking up at weird angles. 

Now, they’ve been lying in bed for a while. There’s the quiet, soporific hush of traffic in the distance, the breathy sound of far-away car engines. The warmth of another body next to his; a feeling he craves more than sex or kisses or dates. They’re pretending to sleep. Or at least, Wilson is pretending to sleep.

Wilson has this superpower, where he can tell that House is about to pop out from around the corner and steal his wallet, or burst into his exam room; the knowledge that he is watching him, somewhere. Usually, he’s being spied on from his balcony, or his conversations are being overheard through the wall or his door. Now, he can feel House’s gaze on him.

“In some cultures, people find it creepy to be watched whilst they sleep.”

He opens his eyes, his suspicions confirmed. House is lying incredibly close, looking at him with a hand pressed underneath his cheek. A second later, and he starts snoring theatrically with his mouth hanging open, fake-sleeping cartoonishly. 

“Oh, my, it seems I was mistaken,” Wilson says evenly. 

House opens his eyes again. “I couldn’t help myself. You’re so pretty when you sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Funnily enough, it’s hard to fall asleep when someone is staring at you, two inches away from your face.”

There isn’t any witty retort this time. House is staring again, unashamedly. There isn’t much to see in the dark- but House’s curtains are crappy enough that Wilson can see the details of his face. Unshaven; frown lines; shockingly pale eyes, though he can’t see the blue in them right now. This close, Wilson doesn’t think he’s ever seen House look so open. It makes him seem years younger. Did Stacy ever see him like this? Does it matter if she did?

Wilson closes the distance. One of those soft kisses that he is always surprised either of them are capable of. And House receives it with the stillness of a man who is trying to figure out if this is a dream or not, whether there’s any point in responding. That brief moment of scared animal, of fight-or-flight response. 

It feels like a secret, something small but significant, something whispered to each other. Bodies not touching except for this kiss in the dark. Private and quiet and aware, like the only two people left awake at a sleepover. Bizarrely innocent. And then he feels a hand on his hip, running under his shirt and skirting over his ribs. Wilson draws in a breath, their lips brushing. And then a hand on his back, pulling him closer. A leg looping over his. The sound of breaths and lips parting and, miraculously, nothing else. The world painted in dark-blue-black. 

House kisses gently. He kisses gently and thoughtfully when he isn’t having a _carpe diem_ moment, a ‘I’ve just figured it out' moment when the lightbulb goes on in his eyes and his world shudders to a standstill, when he isn’t shoving Wilson against the door and gripping him like he’s terrified he’ll disappear if he lets go, as if the saying doesn’t go ‘seize the day’ but instead ‘seize the moment before it fades away, trick it into staying’. When House isn’t terrified of the answer flying away, he kisses like he’s thinking: still, measured, attentive to every detail. 

This isn’t like before. It isn’t full of conflict and biting and hands pinning down shoulders and hips; but it _is_ considered, a conversation with one move after the next, strategic. And that’s still very much them. This time, Wilson is startlingly aware of every inch of skin that touches, is touched, because it’s slow and deliberate. Where before he found himself on House’s bed with his jeans ripped off, not quite knowing how he got there other than in a flurry of kisses and neck bites, now, he feels every step with painstaking slowness. The precision of a doctor’s hands on his body but with added heat, hands spread across the skin of his back, under the waistband of his underwear, another arm snaked under his side to hold him close, fingers spread out to cover as much as possible, a leg between his, socks against his calf, lips ghosting over his in the dark, and it makes Wilson hold his breath in case he misses anything. 

The sound of lips and breaths sounds loud in the quiet of this room. Wilson finds the intimacy of it pushes him forward, arching closer to House, hands under his t-shirt but not moving to take it off. There’s something nice about slipping underneath it. Their legs tangling.

House shudders, and he thinks it’s something to do with the fact that he’s instinctively moving so he’s grinding against his hard-on. 

“Holy-” House says. He exhales sharply. “Your feet are freezing.”

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and recalibrate. “Uh- sorry. I don't typically stop to put socks on during this process.”

He sighs, sounding very put-upon. “Stop rubbing your ice-cold feet along my leg and maybe the process could go ahead as planned.”

There’s no way he’s going to turn down the opportunity to torment him. So, Wilson, slowly, seductively, runs his cold feet up House’s leg. House kicks back, and Wilson finds himself, childishly, laughing at this foot-war.

“This is over. Get out of my apartment.”

“I make pancakes,” Wilson argues. House is physically trying to push him out of bed, and he’s scrabbling to stay, clinging onto the duvet and swatting House’s hands away, kicking with his cold feet. “Please! No! Remember the pancakes! And my distracting good looks!”

“Distract someone else. In the Arctic, with the rest of your people.”

It’s too dark and they’re flapping about too much for him to see whether House is finding this at all entertaining. It’s totally ridiculous, but then, that’s pretty on-brand for them. After another moment of struggling, Wilson finds himself perilously close to the edge of the bed. He grabs onto the bedhead to stop falling to the floor, bites back his yelp so it turns into a manly grunt. 

House leans forward, uses one of his attacking hands to grab him before he falls. And thus, he is recovered. More than that, he’s pulled in close again, and Wilson puts his hands right back where they were in the first place, under House’s t-shirt. Instead of being brought back into a kiss, House looks at him, the corners of his mouth turned up and head tilted curiously in the dark. And Wilson is rolled over, so that he’s lying on top of House. Cold foot knocking mischievously against his ankle. 

“This would be a good time to make a joke about how you’re going to warm me up,” Wilson suggests. 

House exhales quietly, a laugh that Wilson wouldn’t have heard if he weren’t only inches away. Wilson leans in a little, not quite kissing. They talk to each other with lips centimetres apart. “How am I meant to know whether you’re being sarcastic or not when I can’t see your absurdly expressive eyebrows?” House poses. 

He is _fully_ aware that he has absurdly expressive eyebrows, House has commented on them before, and yet right now it’s too funny for him not to laugh quietly to himself. “Joke as much as you like. Now I know that you love my eyebrows and the rest of my face, your jibes don’t hold as much venom.”

He gets a kiss. He doesn’t know if it’s to shut him up, or a reward for being a smartass. Either way, he’s happy, and he kisses back. And House is smiling against his lips. His arms holding him close, pulling Wilson’s weight against him. And Wilson has one hand against House’s side, another on his face, his thumb rubbing against the sharp pinpricks of his beard. The feeling of his breath against the lips as he makes little sighing sounds that he probably thinks Wilson doesn’t notice. He shifts a little, propping his knee on one side of House’s hips, and the brief friction forces him to draw in a breath, makes House hiss quietly, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Warm hands on his back moving beneath the waistband, grabbing a little. It’s suddenly a very surprising feeling, even though he felt that this is where this was going. House. Grabbing his ass. 

It makes him pause. He pulls back a little looks down at House, who’s staring at him dazedly. It’s not a Vicodin or alcohol daze. It's a one hundred percent Wilson daze, and that makes him incredibly smug and somehow a hell of a lot hornier. 

“Would this be a good time to say that I’ve never done this before?” Wilson breathes. “With a guy, that is?”

House stares at him. “Before, you-”

“Yeah, well, blow jobs are pretty self-explanatory, especially if you’ve had previous experience on the receiving end.”

It occurs to him that they could have had this chat before. Any time before this, in fact. But they haven’t. Oh well. 

“Unless you want to stop with _this_ guy,” House replies, “I don’t care.”

Which is a relief that he didn’t realise he needed. “Well, OK, then,” Wilson says decisively. 

There’s another moment where they measure each other, looking in the dark before House leans up to kiss him again. Wilson is happy to comply. More than happy. Anything that doesn’t make him feel like a nervous, blushing bride. He tries to win back some of his earlier confidence by kissing along House’s jaw, nuzzling the crook of his neck. Licking. Moving his body minutely so that House’s hands will hold him more firmly, so he can get more of those sighing noises from him, still a little vindictive even when they’re being gentle. And he sits up so he can pull House’s shirt off, and he feels him taking off his, too, hands moving slowly, deliberately up his torso; t-shirt folding under his palms until it goes over Wilson’s head. The sound of clothes whispering to the floor making this suddenly far more intimate their earlier blowjob competition.

Being able to make House breathe like this, deep, uneven breathes that make his chest rise and fall. His lips tilted towards Wilson’s, searching, his eyes half-open. Any confidence he lost has definitely returned now, because he wants to keep drawing out these new phases of House that he’s never seen before. He wants to take away everything else that gets in the way- sarcasm, bitterness, contest, _underwear_ \- so he does, with lightly tracing fingers and kisses that suck on his bottom lip. With his full weight against House’s body and the feeling of his hands mapping out the curve of his back. 

He can see in the dark like this. With his hands and mouth he can see all he needs to see. He can feel House doing the same, lips occasionally missing his mouth as he pulls away to draw a breath and finds Wilson’s cheek instead, or his jaw. He feels the Egyptian cotton sheets against his bare back as he’s rolled over, House hovering over him, expecting their bodies to be flush, but instead the feeling of a hand running down the inside of his thighs. Nicely ticklish in a way that makes Wilson take in slow, staggered breaths. That suddenly makes him feel less languid and patiently exploratory, and more like he wants to thread his fingers through House’s hair and kiss him harder, pull at him greedily. He can hear his breath coming harder. 

And then it reaches a point where it stops being about hands moving over each other, or about steps in a process, because the boundaries across all his sensations begin to blur into each other, till all he thinks about doing is breathing and being close. The sound of bedside drawer clattering closed blending with the dark behind his eyelids; the raw feeling of stubble against his lips mixed with the sting of slick fingers inside him; the low hungry sounds could be his or they could be House’s. 

It’s unfamiliar at first. It’s hard to know whether he likes it at first. It’s difficult to know how to move at first, but as soon as he does the moment snowballs away until there’s nothing else but hands hooked onto his legs and breath hot against his neck and groans and heavy breaths, bedsheets between his fingers. The weight of them pressed together, delicious and heavy. Shuddering exhales against his lips and sweat-salty kisses. Wilson’s hands clinging onto House’s back, his shoulders; House’s hands hanging onto mattress or pressed against headboard; Wilson rolling them over so House can occupy his hands with his body instead; bending down to kiss him, bringing him to sit up and meet him, to be held; fingers across House’s shoulder blades and the back of his neck. And the sounds House makes- like the sounds he makes when he’s having a massage- but more and _better_ , because these sounds are real and Wilson is the one eliciting them, drawing them out and swallowing them. 

And then, the brow-raised, lip-parted, slack-jawed face, like the one House gets in a eureka moment- but more. And better. 

000000

When Wilson wakes up, House is watching him sleep again. 

“Mpph. This time, I actually was asleep,” Wilson groans, burying his face in his pillow. Well, House’s pillow. “Creepy. You should be locked up.”

“Shut up. You like it. Makes you feel special.”

The morning has lit up the room so he can see House, now. Blue eyes blue once more, no longer shrouded in dark. The way he’s lying on his back, his head turned towards Wilson, he can see the slope of his neck, down to his clavicle and his chest. 

“Oh God,” he mumbles, peering out with one eye and evaluating the state of House’s neck. “Hickies.”

“Don’t care,” House replies easily. “You, however- you might wanna wear a scarf for a day-to-a-week.”

His hand instinctively rises to his neck and prods. “God. What are we, teenagers? I don’t remember the last time I had a hickie.”

He stretches a little, lying on his stomach and pushing his hands against the headboard. He senses House watching, with no qualms at all. 

“You have a day off, right?” House asks lightly. Suspiciously lightly. 

“… _Yes_.”

“Cool. ‘Cause it’s twelve o’clock.”

That makes him sit upright abruptly. “Holy shit, you’re kidding?”

“Nope.” Moves a little, winces- Wilson feels the duvet shift with his hand going to rub his leg. “Wild-cat in the sack at night. Transformed back into an oncologist in the day time. It’s a curse, but I’m here to help you through it.”

Wilson blinks, stares at the bedsheets and yawns. “I’m starving.”

“Better start making those pancakes then.”

He glares at House, who gives him a purse-lipped smile and shifts out of bed, towards the bathroom. 

“I'm not saving you any,” Wilson shouts through the locked door.

“You would _never_.”

Annoyingly, House is right. But he can get his own back by running the hot water tap in the kitchen so there’s none in the shower. Because he takes just as much pleasure irritating House as he does loving him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue!
> 
> Thank you everyone who read this as I was writing it- and anyone reading it after it's fully published! This is an old fandom, and I've not written for it before, but I hope you all enjoyed it.

House is leaning against the chair in his office and throwing a ball against the wall, when he decides to break the boredom by coming out to Cuddy. So, without any delay, he heads downstairs and pushes open the doors to her office with his cane. 

“Wilson and I are boning,” he announces.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t even look up from her paperwork. She licks her fingers and turns the page of the startlingly dull looking file she’s flicking through. Her eyebrows quirk to her hairline briefly, just to acknowledge that she heard House’s proclamation and is waiting for more. 

“I am here to disclose our relationship,” he continues in a perfectly business-like manner, “to avoid any staff policy transgressions due to this change in status.”

“Wonderful. Should I expect the wedding invite soon? Or are you still deciding on the colour of the paper and the font? Fonts are important,” she assures very seriously. 

House hovers in the centre of the office and leans on his cane. “No wedding. I’m not ready to be the future Mrs Wilson yet. And I want to lose some of my Christmas weight before trying to fit into a dress.”

Cuddy smiles wryly and continues to flick through paperwork, the arch of her eyebrow almost as high as her neckline is low. “What do you want, House.”

He purses his lips. “Pretty sure I made that quite clear. Used the legal jargon and everything. I know the devil speaks in lawyer-language, so I came prepared.”

“If you’re here to distract me, or taunt me, or- divert my attention with whatever inside joke this is that you’re having with Wilson,” she remarks, waving her hand vaguely at him, “then don’t bother. I don’t have the time to be buttered up with banter this morning, so why don’t you head out and come back in again, and just tell me what insane thing it is that you want to do.”

House frowns at her, trying to figure out if she’s being intentionally obtuse, or if she's just genuinely oblivious. She looks up at him, brows raised expectantly. 

“I’m not here to ask to cut into someone’s brain, if that's what you mean.”

“No? Not even kill someone and bring them back to life? Or, I dunno, something else completely deranged, like biopsy someone's eye because their butthole is gonna explode?”

"Sounds like a real medical issue. Send them my way, by all means."

When she doesn't return the banter, merely looks at him and _waits_ , House narrows his eyes at her. Oh, this is hilarious. She really thinks he’s kidding. 

“OK, how about this,” House poses helpfully, heading towards the door to her office, “I’ll leave your office. And then, instead of coming back in and telling you what I really want, I’ll go out _there_ and make-out with Wilson in the middle of the atrium, so you’ll realise I’m _really not kidding._ ”

She nods, as if they’ve agreed on a financial transaction and she’s got a real bargain. “Sounds good to me.”

Well, House isn’t one to ignore orders from his superiors. He steps out of the office, gives a cheery wave to Cuddy’s most recent doe-eyed PA, and enters the atrium. And this could not be more perfect- because Cameron, Chase and Foreman are coming out of the stairwell to come find him. Meanwhile, Wilson is talking to a nurse, deep furrow in his brow as they discuss important doctor things. He’s wearing another stupid tie. He’s surprised that one has survived sufficiently to make it out into the light of day; it almost gave House’s wrists rope burn the night before last. 

“Wilson.”

He looks up instantly, then closes his eyes , as if fighting against the urge to roll them. Probably because he can see the mischievous intent in House’s expression. He closes a patient's file with weary finality. “I’m not sure I want to know, I’m busy right now, House.”

“This’ll be quick, promise.”

“I have a patient waiting in exam room two.”

“It’ll be really quick. I need to make out with you. Right now, whilst Cuddy’s watching.”

A deer in the headlights would look less horrified. “Why? God, _why_ -?”

“Because I tried to ‘disclose’ our ‘relationship’,” he says with air-inverted commas, “and she seemed to think it was a ‘joke’.”

“Of course she would. It’s absurd that we’re friends, let alone in an actual, loving relationship.” 

“OK. This is getting off track. Can we kiss now? Or do you want to organise her to come over to our place some time next week-?”

Wilson sighs. But he’s smiling, too. House knows he’s been thinking about making it public, anyway. He tilts his head side to side in consideration, sighs, then nods. “Fine.”

Victory. He steps closer, and whilst Wilson is tense and probably horribly aware of all the nurses and patients gawping, House couldn’t care less. What he _does_ care about is that he just noticed Cameron, Chase and Foreman staring at them- one of House’s hands on Wilson’s arm and the other tilting his chin upwards a little. He sends a wink in their direction. Cameron’s hand flies to her mouth. Chase is bouncing on the balls of his feet and smirking. Foreman is just shaking his head and smiling resignedly.

“Let me guess,” Wilson says, eyes darting to the left as if looking over his shoulder. “Cameron bet Chase that we weren’t screwing each other.”

“Actually,” House corrects, leaning in, “Cameron bet Foreman fifty dollars that we weren’t screwing. Foreman bet Chase two hundred that it’s more than just sex.”

“Good day to be Foreman.”

House smirks, and he kisses him. Some people might be so in love that the world falls away around them; but House is too much of a performer for that. He hears the gasps and the single ‘whoop! Yeah!’ from a stranger in the waiting room, and he absolutely revels in it. 

When Wilson grabs him and swoops him into a dip, his cane falling to the floor, House falls away from the kiss and stares up at Wilson in utter surprise. Looks at ground. then back up at Wilson. Even after all this time, he manages to catch him off-guard. 

Wilson is smirking, clearly aware of just the same, and taking great pride in it. “Is she watching?”

House is holding onto Wilson’s shoulders for dear life so he doesn’t fall. He turns to peer through the glass doors of Cuddy’s office- and finds, instead, that she’s standing in the doorway. Wearing a mushy smile and clapping, without any sarcasm whatsoever. 

“Yup.” He tilts up to meet Wilson’s lips, and says, “Bet she never saw it coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr at justkeeptrekkin!


End file.
